Bhutan College Girl Returns Home to the Farm

The leaves of the potato are wise:
they send the sugar below ground
for a tuber of love,
somewhat starchy in demeanor
but as wise as an aging parent

She is an educated farmer
knows the smell of the city,
has read many books

But the land of her parents
must not lie fallow

She will milk it
for the love of the land
and for her parents, because

fine pigs for the market will
bring home the bacon kindly
while crunchy carrots will say

books can wait, but
Mother can not

The Percussion of a Kiss (Draft 1) [from the translation discussion]

If you’d listen to the beat of my heart
you’d know the scent of you is in my dreams
where melodies are made thrilling

listen dear, a symphony plays
the music of popped cork and trill with wine

I am composed of love;
sing my composition.

Feel the beat, the rhythm —

sing the melody in the clouds of mind,
dart with me to the beat of our hearts
and then may you agree to

touch a soul with a note, for you
will know my lub-dub pump,
this sanguine song start
to a drum kiss sangria

The Feathers of You

Your mingle, jingle joy
tickles me airworthy
gives me flight, so lift me
and wing it all, ’cause

your mingle jingle joy
carries me skyward

Oh, your magic spiral
spins me skyward, and

your mingle jingle joy
escalates me so, though

before you flew in
I was in a pickle
feeling sour and blue

now your magic spiral
spins my jingle joy
like a tour de force

an escalating spiral
fête de l’amour

your mingle jingle joy
pickles me in salty passion because

you flew onto my runway
with hors d’oeuvres
and blue sky.

Pens Lost In Digital Snow

Seals and polar bears swimming.
Pens of explorers lost.

Many digital articles on Eskimos
laughing together
transcribed from pen works, but
not much left from
writings in the snow.

Ambiguity must be earned, for
never would one know
there’s no flower in the snow.

Returning to the laughing igloo
he brings home the food and fur
of a work without a pen

Spear and club are shrug-ugly
piercing the seal in blood
opening the seals of soul, a muddy
ambiguity of his spirit to live
to eat, and return to the igloo,
though now his child has a computer.

The blessed child is the after-laugh.
Oh such a giggle rainbow, colors that grow
in many modal drawings of love,
in crayons, in finger paints, in ink, in
the paint of explosive jello
and the wiggle of love with cosmic pen
writing in the streak of laughing stars.
Many articles about stars, ice,
the noble hunt, and he, the warrior
may someday look for
his pen in the snow, when
he began to take notes for a researcher.

His child doesn’t need
a pen or spear anymore
nor a need to ever return to the igloo.

Her Pink Camera

[This is technically an old poem but for some reason I didn’t include it in the eBooks. I suppose I didn’t like it at the time.]

Her Pink Camera
(formerly called “Aftermath” in a hard cover book)

Stormy days came just after us;
things washed away
seagulls cry

Gave you a pink camera you’d wanted, and
you said you’d visit the beach to
hear the seagulls cry blue
the ocean roar

Said you’d get batteries for it
after you got a cute pink computer

Stormy day floods on first floors
things washed away, but
weren’t you on the fourth

Don’t know
haven’t heard from you.
Did you get the batteries
and go into the storm surge?

Stormy days
things washed away
and I haven’t seen your pink
but I gave you the pink camera

In Hurricane days
things were washed away
seagulls cried blue
and videos were shown

Maybe it was you in the pink,
who took those anonymous pictures —
I haven’t heard

I miss your pink, had
missed you in the swirls

but, yeah, it’s your style
you could have posted video P1748:
seagulls following your pink camera

Stormy days, dead
things washed away
seagulls cry blue

Bulldozers and sand walls
protection against the waves.
Did you get batteries and a pink dress?

Didn’t you say you’d visit the beach
to hear seagulls cry

Next time you see the seagulls
tell them I love them, ok?

It Only Takes a Word To Conquer

I will conquer them
with diplomacy, mere
words and contagion will
sneeze our conspiracy into
the air of their glamorous
glistening ball room.

My team offers
smooth and soothing persiflage
oozing our pus into their lungs; they

breath our loquacious anesthesia,
lilac scents of sensible chatter
(but their pusillanimous odor
repels us like a corpse flower).

We know the rituals we must
perform to hide the dagger
and dance for the pompous
who court us like
children at proms.

Weakening the enemy, we
send in our smarmy army, knowing
a cocktail or two will do
to suck out a bit of brain
through a tin ear that
hears only flattery.

They do not know
there will be blood
even for the elite.

My unctuous Ambassador
is slick, not anxious, and
he easily wheedles out
a disarmament treaty
holding his nose
against the stench
of decadence.

We wait for the fools to
celebrate their papers, and now
when their guard is down

our daggers slaughter,
as in ancient times, and

I demand
those not dead must be
obsequious, and
happy to be
our new slaves.

Cake

Because I woke too late in morning bed, I
only glimpsed a yellow dress
swirling out the door, and

limey me wondered: what
does love feel like, Sugar girl
if making love is not like
having love, or cake
for breakfast thoughts
although

I felt so warm in bed
even after you left, and

it feels as if I’ve taken a hot-soak
bubble bath of laughs with you
to giggle bubble the day

Oh say
can I have your cake
and bake it too, or

maybe pie
with cream and Key lime

maybe
if there’d be

a drink for us to
gin up the love
I’d define it by

lemon and lime,
with Sugar