A poem not yet written
Is like a genie incarcerated in its bottle,
Waiting for the gentle strokes
Of its poet’s liberating quill.

An image here, an alliteration there
Send emergent clouds of verbal magic
Floating into the aether,
Demanding to be crafted into
A tapestry of finest weave and hue.

It will be what it must
And not even the hope-filled poet
Can foretell its destiny.

But like all expectant parents,
Quaking in the throes of labor,
The poet hopes his or her newborn child
Will leave the world
An incrementally better place.

On an ominous and moonless star-filled night
    Lady Moses led them to the shore
Where scores would cross the river to freedom’s light
    And shed their chains for evermore.

With boundless, courage and everlasting drive
    Thousands more would soon arrive
To climb aboard and row for liberty’s ride
    With Harriet Tubman as their guide.

for Joscephine Gomez

I quietly closed the door behind me and stepped inside
Where several souls had preceded me.

    A painter stood by her easel by the south door,
    There was a poet seated at her desk.
    A Buddhist scholar stood before an open tome
    and a lyric soprano softly hummed her warm up patterns.

Just then another soul opened the door and asked,
“Who are these people and how did they get here.”

I answered, “they are all called Joscephine
    and they have come from the stars
    bearing gifts to heal us, encourage us
    and light our ways with kindness and wisdom.

A nurse in Boulder snaps her suitcase closed.
An Ohio surgeon drives to meet his plane.
A well-digger packs her boots in Glasgow.
Optical tools are stowed for the flight from Sydney.
A dentist tucks her passport in its sleeve.

           Faces of the kin they dearly love
           read of blended pride and sorrow.

But they must go where mercy calls.

Their planes touch down across the globe -
in Kenya, India, Bolivia, Sudan.
Their clinics housed in shacks or tents.
Their board, assembled huts or barracks.
At day's first light their healing gifts begin.

           Villagers faces glow with grateful love
           as hope foretells a new tomorrow

for loving help has come where it was called.

The vaccine line ends at the nurse's station.
New glasses bring a child the gift of sight.
The dentist’s art relieves a father’s aching molar.
The surgeon sets a fractured radius.
Shouted joy acclaims a new well's teeming flow.

            Let us praise that gentle love -
            given from Delhi to Kilimanjaro -

by those who came when they were called -
by those who loved when mercy left no choice.

I gave my globe a spin
and watched it whirl -
far too fast to read
the blood-bought labels,
printed on its paper shell.

The summer dawn summoned me
beyond the entry door,
so I stepped outside to
plant my boots on a larger sphere
where the scale is one to one
and all the hues are earth tones.

I raised my hand to feel the sweep
of a morning breeze
and stooped to cup a draft
from a meandering stream.

That hand might be mine or theirs
or yours or ours. It’s all the same!

There is only one air mass,
but a single body of water
and not a hectare of sod
can draw its borders or confess its name.

April, 2025

There seems to be no escape.  
    The MAGA cult groupies are all queued up.
Tickets in hand, they gather their baggage
     Lining up to board the leaky ship
For a one-way trip to the bottom of the sea.

Their bags are exceedingly heavy -
    Filled with their leader's failures
Formed of laundered cash, ****,
    Top Secret document theft, fraud,
Abandonment of faithful allies
    and defenders of Ukrainian freedom.

There are no first class seats on this ship
     because there are no first class passengers.
They long ago sold off all they should value
     to stand by a creepy hotel clerk
Consumed by arrogance and self - idolatry.

Their hero arrives in a three-piece suit
     to escort them to their cabins
As soon as he scrapes the mashed potatoes
     off his corruption soaked soul

But wait - there seem to be empty seats
     Many former voyagers are turning away
tearing their tickets as they go.
      They tell how they’ve had it.
With lies and losing and treachery.

Too bad for them - for you see,
       There's no place like the ocean floor
To gurgle on the wrong side of history.