Blind Man's Blues

Blind old man plays his flute

oblivious of charity. I pay
his soul a dollar; feel, within
my collar, the rise of a blush
like the round moon owning

the sky. Or was it the silent
crescent of a grin, encapsulating
the taste of savoring
a blind man’s Pied Piper skill?

With a flute he calls the moon
to paint the puddle by his wheelchair-throne,
then pipes her on her way.

Oh with a flute he roots boys
like sudden trees to sweet spots
aching for melody –

then gently, oh ever so gently

like the wind.....pipes them on their way.

Whispered Chants

Begin by taking 
off your glasses. Kiss the pearl
of each eye. They brim

of dreams, amplified 
horizons loosing trails of
inner rain. Secrets you

hold for elected 
lovers. Trace salt trails of eyes 
to nose, then prism-chin –

in dimple there, the sun. 
Move up to lips; forget not
the sweet core of you:

Our tongues are snakes
wrestling for knots, for thrones. Leave
your tiara in my chest.

In Every Brood a Defiant Cub

In every brood there lies the defiant cub. Knowing the whims of hunger and mischief, the tigress feeds this wild child first, before the gentler mouths. And knowing the ebb and draw of Nature, how the tame one would stick by your wing, and the wild son needs a toss in the hay and mud, you

let him fly, wrestle oxen and tigers, break a leg or rib, come back all
blood-washed. You wring him dry of ego with the whip of words, put him

on a leash of your voice and presence, praying that one day, he’ll pick up the chalk of life, and draw his own hopscotch squares, and stay.