BECKONING
conch shells
whisper
secret maya sounds
from cliffs
beside temple ruins
sharing moon goddess
Ixchel’s power
in the Yucatán earth
beyond our mysterious origin
so deep within vast sapphire sky
all the way to the Mexican moon
and back
one day we’ll return to this southern finger
of Isla Mujeres
beckoning
wise spirits of the dead
who fuel the living
to depend on our planet
to continue
BELOW THE SURF
choppy waves slapping
blue surging chaos
scares people
unaware how
disturbance
teaches
serenity
put your face below the surf
dunk your head
open your eyes
see and feel clarity
underwater tranquility
as far as soft seas stretch
enter beneath the surface
dive
deeply
into unconscious composure
rest easy amid the storm
find peace and harmony in rough water
giving life as a gift
to those grateful for the chance
WHEN THE JAGUAR ARRIVES
kneeling at the edge of the world
the woman offers a gift
to the jaguar
one day the black and gold beast will visit Isla Mujeres
to stalk the “cliff of the dawn” high above a rippling cobalt sea
when the jaguar arrives
the woman wants her to feel at home
to know safety in our endangered world
so she raises her palms to the heavens
offering shelter on behalf of Ixchel
on a sacred stone tray that holds the future
a warrior sentry in a multi-colored feathered headdress
stands behind her
holding a precious platter
filled with sustenance for the majestic cat
in Punta Sur
where the bold Mexican sun rises fresh each morning
to warm human hearts with wonder
the jaguar knows
do you?
JUST SIT
brown wooden Buddha sits in the Lotus Beach Hotel lobby
gray black ink Buddha sits on my left upper arm
revealing clear tattooed commitment to calm
cut into bleeding skin when I began aikido practice many years ago
brown wooden Buddha wrestles with nothing
I’m still learning to breath
pure stillness
in the newborn island morning
when the way of peace and harmony
extends good ki energy
amid madness
restraint breeds tranquility
so sit
just sit
be the brown Buddha
be the white light of love
WALKING WITH IXCHEL
walking a windy path to the edge
Ixchel closes her eyes
to see if she might stumble
undeterred by darkness our moon goddess never falters
never misses a step
balances on tip-toes to the jagged rim before falling from raw cliffs into a fruity cocktail-colored sea
unlike staggering rum-soaked conquistadors walking the plank
claiming her temple island for spain
Ixchel was here first
who did these self-proclaimed conquerors think they were
stinking lice-ridden fools
macho madmen
Ixchel bathes in fragrant moonbeams
marvels at freshly squeezed orange sunrise
sprinkles rich sea salt on delicious dreams
warm lunar love lights her way home
to shelter
in bounteous Isla Mujeres existence
forever rich on land, sea and air
atoms to atoms
dust to dust
beyond the beyond
forever
walking with Ixchel
down our serpentine spiritual path
TEACHERS
dusk in an empty room
shadows the past, present and future
in Isla
who once watched the sea I see through these very windows?
mysterious strangers visiting our Lotus refuge
feeling the Maya drum beat
in the cool air
seekers savoring comfort
relishing the scene
without fear
who are these laughing spirits now sitting across a wooden table
on a rice mat
on a polished marble floor
on cushioned wooden chairs
two women sharing a bottle of Blood Red Syrah wine
Ixchel
La Santa Muerte
our teachers regaling Stephanie and me with ancient legends
cast on the coming moonlight
floating on silver water
so we better understand, see and feel
mind-bending magic on this island of women
I hear the train a comin’ rolling ’round the bend
And I ain’t seen trouble like this since I don’t know when.
Get ready, Scranton, Wilkes-Barre, Hazleton and God knows how many dirty little coal patch towns in between. The Trump train’s a coming to a re-election rally near you.
Beer guzzling Johnny Cash fanatics, four-wheelers driving drunk the wrong way down the interstate, SWAT team cops, ex-cops, state cops, local yokel cops, constables, county sheriffs, Secret Service agents past and present, military veterans representing all branches of the service, active duty Marines, soldiers and a bedraggled assortment of mostly redneck American laborers, bartenders, unemployed roofers and other discriminated against white men are prepared to tie you libs to the track and roll over you like a runaway Steamtown locomotive.
To take back America, that’s why! To make America great again! To shoot before they see the whites of your eyes.
Hold your fire, men.
Did I say shoot?
That’s right, son.
These new American revolutionaries ain’t playing.
Even hot-wired on Wild Turkey and two-step dancing in new work boots these boys get teary-eyed expressing their love of God, guns and guts, willing to pay any price to save all three. Barbecue, beer and freedom go together better than any Tinkerbell trio of drag show performers at the human relations commission annual summer picnic.
The New Breed (which sounds like a fitting name for the armed citizen revolutionary guards Trump will assemble from sea to shining sea if he wins a glorious return to the White House) will pick up their machine guns, grenades, semi-automatic rifles, flame throwers, handguns, and deer hunting bows and arrows, take to their used SUVs and pickups to patrol the streets of our nation in one big paramilitary vendetta coming for societal spies, turncoats and informers.
The New Breed don’t need no more corrupt judges like that commie in that Manhattan courtroom. The New Breed will create new order in the court. No Ma’am, the jobs and the courtrooms and military and even the Justice Department now belong to Trump.
Trump! Trump! Trump!
Now we got rare, beef-fed, red-blooded All-American boys and girls leading armed and dangerous local militia battalions ready to round up any and all alphabet soup LGBTQRSTUVWXYZ gays, Black power militants and immigrants with skin darker than the suntan you get on your arm (heavily tattooed with a Marine bulldog, a Confederate flag and a can of Pabst Blue Ribbon) from driving truck with your elbow resting on the window and your white t-shirt sleeve rolled to the shoulder.
That Lee Greenwood song “Proud to be an American” is already the new unofficial national anthem. Georgia peach congresswoman Marjorie Taylor Green is already the new First Lady because, unlike Melania, Marjorie stood by her man.
’Merica!
Love it or leave it!
Forget about Joe Biden’s prissy little Amtrak choo choo train scheduled to head from Scranton to New York so them sissies U.S. Sen. Bob Casey and Congressman Matt Cartwright can Christmas shop and see the Rockettes at Radio City Music Hall.
Lock ‘em up!
Lock ‘em up!
But what if Trump’s locked up?
Don’t think for one stinking second you need patriotic special operations combat vets to free their leader from solitary confinement. Real Americans don’t need a Green Beret, SEAL team or DELTA death squad to blow the prison walls. Enough corrections officers who love Trump no doubt exist inside to sneak Trump out in a laundry truck and drive him directly to the Oval Office with a massive police, military and militia escort and throngs of supporters lining the soon-to-be crime free streets waving Trump flags along the route. This presidential procession will be better than any welcome home parade Vietnam vets didn’t get until it was too late.
But Trump was a draft dodger, wasn’t he?
Don’t you dare even think such subversive blasphemy.
Mr. President Trump was working undercover in a secret CIA classified mission so the North Vietnamese VC would think he was one of them so he could get close enough to Jane Fonda to hit on her Hollywood bones and singlehandedly capture the queen of the feminists by grabbing her by any damn body part he wanted. On his first day back in office Trump will sign a warrant for Fonda’s arrest even though she’s 86.
Lock her up!
Lock her up!
Hillary, too!
LOCKHERUPLOCKHERUP!!!!
WOOOOOOOOO!
WOOOOOOOOO!
You hear that?
The Trump train’s picking up speed!
It’s coming for that scrappy kid from Scranton!
Corn Pop can’t save you now, Joe Biden.
ALLLL ABOARD!!!!!!
MOONBEAMS
the man in the moon
pouts
with woeful eyes, mouth and nose
sadness
empty-headed
weak
poor lonely man in the moon
he knows not the true meaning of his glow
lunar luster shines from her
not him
ixchel sitting on a sharp moon sliver
a swing in our heavenly garden
radiating moonbeams that bathe life on earth
controlling the tide
giving heart to our planet
ixchel feeling sorry for fools who credit any man
with saving the world
ixchel knows the future is female
ask your mother, she says
better yet, ask the night light of the cosmos
ask ixchel
NEXT TIME IN ISLA
if you sit quietly watching coconuts sleep on a sturdy roof of sticks, you might notice the simmering carribean sea in the distance
you might wonder what lies beyond the glistening smooth horizon
cuba
havana
an ice cream cone dripping on my tropical shirt decorated with lighthouses
where a laughing schoolgirl wearing a red bandana tied smartly around her neck lectured me in 1984 about how many languages she knew
asking if I spoke any of the tongues she commanded
I shook my head
no
spanish?
no.
italian?
no
german?
no
russian?
when we laughed she laughed loudest
forty years later my answer remains the same
no
i’m a coconut sleeping on the roof
no more
next time in isla
i’ll speak better spanish
next time in isla
i’ll order several fancy cocktails at the guru beach club bar instead of my sad, single margarita with lime and salt
next time in isla
my tongue will dance the jarana as I roll my r’s across the roof of my mouth
i might even sing a love song
next time in isla
AWAKENING
alone in a leafy Lotus Beach Hotel refuge
vanilla buddha just sits
chock-full of paradise
slick black morning catbirds whistle
at cooey coy lovey dovies
preening as ancient drums keep time
etching new psychic tattoos
spreading nature’s portrait
an original face
looking back from the mirror at
drunken saints and sober sinners
ordering cold fresh fruit for breakfast by the beach
blackberry bliss
kiwi joy
strawberry paradise
banana split nirvana
sweet serenity in
a morning meal served in awakening heat
and humidity
on this hot and wondrous sweaty
moment to be alive