I
Not since the slave war was there such hate.
There is no refuge in this exiled land
But only fists raised as twisted snakes
With the red venom of anger in our hands.

All fingers point to hypocrisy of the state-
The party of me, party of we, the days of hate,
We pledge to each our separate tribes
And blame the other for the failure of our times.

A genuine love is beyond feelings.
Ardent lovers are entirely weaklings,
only weaklings adhere to this concept,
pretext not to love, their hearts are inept.

Feelings feign love beyond estimation,
in a flicker, go into extinction.
Just as fickle as the course of a wind,
feelings change leaving acrid pains behind.

The pains left behind hover like a ghoul,
eat deep into the fabrics of your soul,
impress on your face a deep furrow,
as you swim, wade through the sea of sorrow.

In the desert
we wear tinfoil caps
As it grows warmer
The beads spill down our faces
bits of a rock salt rosary
Breaks are taken
when it rains
for sand dune novenas
We drink and pray to mosaics
made eyeless by white sand
sandblasted by lattice waves
Light congregates
on each man’s head
from one altitude to the next

above and below

endlessly

Right now summer fades away
in the Blue Ridge foothills of my home
where shadows lengthen day by day
and deer, bear, fox and bobcats roam.

Wild cherry leaves, the first to change,
now desert their summer host
quilting the ground with dull burnt orange
where they eventually become compost.

School mascots are adorning cars
in coming season's anticipation.
While acorns ripen beneath cooling stars
then tumble to their final destination.