when he sings
Amazing Grace we
stand in tears

haiku in which I digress and also break the rules

From Stonewall’s first brick,
To the Court’s final judgement,
Walls come tumbling down.

Despite the clearly marked signs,
my father carried a pinecone secreted in his camera bag
from the thicket of trees of Tuolomne Grove
home to rest in Kentucky Bluegrass.

A Sequoia doesn’t thrive in Kentucky’s 
humid summers. It longs for winter dark and deep.
My father will not live to see it 
grow tall enough to tower over him.

I imagine a Sequoia would be
lonely without its grove.
Buildings are no companion for trees.
Neither are men, tiny figures
beneath the notice of such a Colossus.

I’d rather think of the Sequoias gathered
in Yosemite, whispering and rustling
to one another while I walk around and 
through their trunks.

I am fleeting and insignificant 
against their lofty and enduring heights.

The black of the coffee
and not the dark of the coffin
is what I crave. The lopsided
dogwood still blooms,
years after the arborist claimed
no way it would survive another winter.
One more truckload of narcotic mulch
and I’m ready for anything that sprouts.
I take romantic walks, often with my wife,
while a cranky bumblebee,
that brilliant trombonist, mollifies
the cul-de-sac, despite
not sporting much of a playlist.
It’s hard not to listen to that music.

I don’t know why
after all these years
I still awaken
in the middle of the night
wondering
if I’m on the wrong track,
doing the wrong thing,
why I still second-guess my actions
as though my soul doesn’t know where it’s going.

GOODNIGHT, SWEET PRINCE

A pox upon’t! he said to the queen

and kicked her throne, causing

his crown to slip a bit on his bald

pate. You lizard tongue! she replied

and kicked nothing, but held out

her left foot to admire her ankle.

Still slender albeit a little puffy

but then it had been a long reign

.

“I’m to bed,” he said, causing

attendants to manifest from be-

tween folds of the arras. Two

helped Majesty down the three

steps from the dais. One walked

before him to part the air. The

whole procession looked absurd

from the queen’s perch, where

she realized of a sudden that

she wasn’t supposed to be. She

was never to be higher than

the king, her sovereign lord, etc.

This was so tiring! If only her

father had married her off to

Spain! At least they had bullfights.

–George Ella Lyon

Hieronymus rose from a harrowing night,
saw salvation approaching, and crowed with delight.

Sunday we sat in the transept of the cathedral
facing folks like us in the opposite arm of the cross.

The lector read Paul’s letter to the Corinthians, “Whoever had much
did not have more, and whoever had little did not have less.”

Fr. Tobias, a Missionary of Compassion, said Mass.
His order cares for the destitute of the globe.

He prays for one of our children or grandchildren
to have a vocation. Our daughter studies exponential functions

to understand the power of investing
and looks for mentors to explain how to achieve fiscal independence.

One comforts orphans, the elderly, terminally sick, and homeless,
the other wants to generate income without working.

One is accumulating good deeds,
the other wants to accumulate revenue generating assets.

She’s employed by a Japanese corporation that nets 500 million a year,
he for a religious institution with over a billion members worldwide.

One has faith, the other self-confidence.
Both like to take risks when the ground is stable beneath their feet.

Midway through the homily, the sun climbed up to the church steeple
and found us through the stained glass window.

As Fr. Tobias urged, we must find our vocation on earth
so when the music of life ends, we will find our salvation.

You can’t cure

a sore throat

by Googling

salt water.

–George ella Lyon

Arms in eagle pose

Reclined Spinal twist with both shoulders on the floor

Heels to the floor in downward facing dog 

Any pose with a slight backbend

Veerabhadrasana 

Warrior two with a wobble 

Unsupported pigeon.

Last night I dreamed of my physical therapist

her brown eyes her soft voice.

She says OK I’ve pushed

too far. Sit on the table,

pat pat. I’ve got to take 

some of it 

back. 

—Melva Sue Priddy

you believe him cuz
somethin stay coiled

in his fightin arm
you’ve felt it

strain to buck its tether
and strike

even though some
call it lovemakin

you call it letloose
and sometimes to stop

yourself from guessin
what comes next

every time he call you
sweetheart or babygirl

you almost wish
it would