Lascaux

Lascaux

The writing is on the wall…
With dirty, ochre fingers, black soot
Crocus yellows, and white wax,
I smear my woes, my dreams, my story,
Onto the granite canvas of time.

Bison, horses, buffalo run,
Run off my fingertips
Into a forever story of running.
Run solo, run with the herd,
Neither toward, nor from.
Run in dreams… finger dreams.
My own dreams of running free,
Free from hungry thought.

By firelight,
My oily fingers caress
Stone walls of home, so
That my grandchildren’s
Grandchildren may learn
Of the herd and the hunt,
And my dreams.

I tell of my dreams
With soiled fingers –
That they may learn
To tell their stories
With their own oily hands.

60 plus degrees - a SoCal December in Maryland.

Nothing new, but after the recent weather we had, I find this oldie apropos.


Heat Wave

it’s a heat wave in December
so people hit the streets -
tank tops, sandals, gaucho girls
no cars, just on our feets.
we cool ourselves with melted snow
and chase it down with gin.
we praise the greenhouse, “Glory be”
and celebrate in sin.

it’s a heat wave in the winter
the ozone layer’s gone,
I think I’m getting sunburn
from my head down to my thong.
I’d really like to see it snow
it would be a thrill,
global warming go away
and let us humans chill.

it’s a heat wave in December
and cats are chasing dogs
the geese all fly in circles
while sleds are pulled by frogs .
we cool ourselves with melted snow
and chase it down with gin
we praise the greenhouse, “Glory be”
and celebrate in sin.
I’d really like to see it snow
it would be a thrill
so global warming go away
and let us humans chill!

c. 2004