Hunger

There was miner's lettuce and plaintain

   and dandelion growing
In parks and lawns
   and cracks in the sidewalks
And chamomile and fennel, nasturtium even
Peeking through someone's picket fence

Wild mother earth offered her bounty
But I wandered absent-minded and
   careless of food
Like a dreaming child

Wandering down Haight street
Approached for spare change
But I was fasting
Since I had no spare change anyway
Approached
Reproached
But I laughed
When he said he was hungry

Wild mother earth laughed
As hungrily as a dreaming child
The street opened up
The cornucopia flowed, untended

Memetic Science for Poets

What of memes and photons?
Is there a quantum language?

Having grown up on the Martian Chronicles
and Star Wars, can I expect less from my government
wherever and whatever it may be?

Templar bankers plot with Merovingian rock stars on-line
while Arab grocers hack and complain "No Can Do"
in the streets of Baghdad

Ghosts of Alexandria visit poets in San Francisco
wondering "has the desert arrived yet?"
the answer came "after the haiku is read"
the Mayans are coming, the fat lady will sing

Asperger's geeks are at their computers
creating meme-structures like a fancy spiderweb across the sky.
Earth sails across the photon band
random photons fall together in new patterns
Quantum poetry arranging itself
in gathered response to autistic thought waves

Practitioners of memetic science gather their best rituals to share
their images recall the universal tarot,  the major arcana
we call them shamans, wounded beyond recognition
we disguise them in the garb of poets and architects and musicians.

The newest megameme emerges and spreads.

Merry Xmas

Micro Macro

Big Trip

I am a priestess of the seasons
   and a princess of the realm
   the sacred cow through whose udders
   flows the nurturing substance of all the universe
   the holy vessel of the natural temple
I am Kali
   fearsome mother of life and death
I am Shakti
   the primal energy
   the source
   that which cannot be named
   as priestess my function is to serve
   to mirror
   to point beyond
   in the direction all men fear but indicate
      in the very turning back
   the secret need
   whispered in churches and in bed
   in kitchens and in sickrooms
   called by frightened children in the deadly night
   articulated by outhouse minds (dirty motherfuckers)
      trying to escape the curse of Oedipus
   the name always close to utterance
      on the tongues, and
      in the minds of men
I am culture, country, and one woman in the memory
   of every man
Demeter
Mary (God himself is subject)
   the green and moving, ancient sea, that warming
      chilling womb
   impregnated by the sea
      the cradle rocked by the moon.
        Whatever form,
         Thou art that.

Jehanah

Returning From Old Hawai'i

My oldest and best friend Waterfall 

just died of heart magick

so I missed his wake on Hippy Hill, 

and got on a plane

and went to old Hawai'i instead

to explore a new grandson's huge eyes 

and sudden smile

and wonder how fast a soul 

could transmigrate

I let my son drag me into a 

Hawai'ian jungle of strange plants

to see a yurt for sale in the dead of night

far from buslines, far to the nearest bar 

or the outdoor loo

built of twigs and branches 

and a volcanic mud floor

windows peeking out at the birds

the mynah plucking at plumeria

I don't know if I can be a jungle woman,

retired to solitude and contemplation

can a laptop outshout the birds

can a yellow birdie hopping 

on an iron fence painted the same color

find safety and peace
and a warm send-off into the air

on sunshine wings flagging 

too fast to follow

The waterfall beckons.

Darkness smiles.

To be a drop of water falling

to notice that it is water and

splashes into a single waterfall

through the elements shining

and a dream of an elephant,

splashing and laughing in the

waterness of the falls.

We drove out to the volcanic flats

in the area where the goddess Pele/Kilauea

flowed and covered my son's house.

We went to an old rough-built lean-to 

sitting on the black swirling lava rock

already crumbling and servant 

to green shoots and plants.

The young man who had lived there

died and left dozens of photos

of friend and twin family alike

wind and rainswept on the walls

of his two-sided shack.

Personal items lined the walls,

a pallet with his sleeping bag still there.

A man figure made of wooden planks

and painted jolly smile and round eyes,

arms swinging, almost a windmill

with tiny bells hanging from painted 

hands and fingers, waving in the wind

rain already soaking painted eyes

that had tiny streams of blue running

down his face, scarecrow straw hat

picked apart by black birds.

A shrine of black rocks, with his photo

a young man healthy happy and smiling

little plots of red and yellow flowers,

a plastic lei of white and blue

green shoots of plants already

growing up through the rocks.

Tom looked into a little carved box

on a small improvised table inside

the lean-to, lifting the lid, to finger

a few buds of marijuana 

half-destroyed by weather and time,

tiny pot seeds chewed by tiny insects

into bits of seed and holes in the whole ones.

My ears hurt from the wet wind that blew,

even sitting on the pallet protected from the wind

by the two walls lined with photos.

I longed for a hooded raincoat and scarf.

But then this young man grew up here

and surfed the magnificent ocean every day.

No water was foreign to his spirit.

The Merry Monarchs

The Merry Monarchs dancing

Hawai'i hula, be-flowered

and long grasses waving,

sunful colored fabrics tied on

and green leaves crowning all.

No smiles of laughter

ever surpassed these happy faces

children of palm and beach and ocean,

red of goddess Pele mountain of fire 

over all, building anew

touching the dancing, churning sea.

Crying with laughter

sons and daughters of 

Liliuokalani and Kamehameha

still here, dancing royal history

and tribute to the land,

and sea, and sky.

Jehanah 2010

To Kill A Songbird

The corn is growing well
there are poisons in the air
and the bees and bats are dead
and the butterflies are not well

Migrating birds must fly
through clouds of death and greed
the poisons go so high
farmers cannot raise the seed

A corporate brood controls our food
for oil is running out
the cars must run, so must the gun
the money sign's what it's all about

The Earth grows tense behind the fence
farmers cannot raise the seed
the birds must die and it makes no sense
we'll have to eat the weeds

The planet groans as children die
deep ocean things emerge
the next life forms to walk the earth
until the next great surge

The canary in the mine has sung
and fluttered down to rest
He will not rise, no one will come
the Earth will take the rest

Jehanah 2010