Planting Rice

PLANTING RICE

To Fernando Amorsolo

You capture the special quality

Of the light of our land—

Brilliant but blinding,

Vitalizing yet enervating,

Turning fields green

When the rains arrive,

Roasting grass brittle

When skies are dry.

Beneath broad sun hats,

Sheltered faces shine

As they labor cheerfully

In your pastoral idyll.

Truth be told, planting rice

Is like shoveling coal

In the boiler room,

Bowing constantly.

No matter, art is license

And vision is heritage

Of which we all partake:

We celebrate your genius.

Yellows, radiant pears,

Reds, multihued plums—

Your palette, a fruit bowl,

Vivid feast for hungry eyes.

Your virtuoso brushstrokes

Travel boldly all around,

Testifying to your mastery of oil,

Not to mention draftsmanship.

Your deep rich browns

Bind us to the soil.

Your radiant light

Keeps our sun blazing.

Originally published in Anak Sastra, Issue 17 (October 26, 2014), pages 82-83

Planting Rice (1949) by Fernando Amorsolo

The ocean is a desert…

The ocean is a desert…

The ocean is a desert:

No water to drink,

No trees to rest,

No animals to ride.

The gull that glides

Above the waves

Is the faraway condor

Surveying the sand;

They are in their element.

We find no home

In the sea any more than

We sleep in the clouds.

Originally published in Written River, Volume 2, Issue 5 (Winter 2014-15), page 37

The ocean is a desert...

Elijah

ELIJAH

I am struck down by the warrior sun in the desert.

I am a string attempting to stand.

I cannot move my legs—

They are stones hammered into the earth.

I cannot lift my arms—

They are branches felled by a storm.

I am a house unable to move,

A hoary salt bed cooked entirely dry.

Depletion is my abrupt affliction.

I am a well filled at bottom with sand.

I long for a jug of sweet water,

For a bundle of fresh steaming bread

To bring life to my legs, hope to my heart—

Who will bring me wherewithal for my journey?

Originally published in Marathon, Issue 7 (February 2015)  

He prayed for death: “Enough, Lord! Take my life, for I am no better than my ancestors.”—1 Kings 19:4

The world is...

The world is…

The world is a waterless white expanse.

Abandoned cities stand as termite mounds,

Hubs of gulley networks lined with salt.

Beetles make homes where no humans roam.

Scorpions tiptoeing track tiny dimples.

Lizards scurry about as if electrocuted.

The wind whistles through honeycomb ruins.

Tiny tornadoes raise their fists.

Hot dust puffs like gun smoke.

We walk among windswept dunes of ash.

We quarry for light and dig for springs.

We tap at stones and ask for mercy.

We water ourselves to water the world.

Originally published in Blue Heron Review, Issue 3 (Winter 2015)

Bolivia Salt Desert

The Desert

THE DESERT

It was the Lord, our God, who brought us and our ancestors up out of the land of Egypt, out of the house of slavery.—Joshua 24:17

You depart for the desert in darkness,

The way lit by the moon.

Rocks and scrub touched by chalk,

Brush lightly dusted white…

The planet is luminously radioactive.

Mountains cut out by scissors

Press black polygons against the sky.

Gradually, gloaming

Restores pink flush to the land,

Turning the moon into a faint watermark.

Noontime unsheathes his sword,

Slaying the day.

No animals peep in this slow broil,

Not a twitch of the ear,

Not a blink from a paralytic.

Traveling inside an oven, you wear a hat,

Swig ice water frozen the day before,

Keep delirium at bay like an anxious patient.

The wind lies in a coma.

Oxygen is too weak to rise.

Twilight is adding pigments to oil,

Deepening blue,

Doing arithmetic,

Red times orange.

Tiny denizens stir as if readying for school.

Dusk makes a promise:

He says the mountains hold deep wells and caves,

Cool as beds freshly made.

He speaks not to deceive but to encourage.

Waiting is a long walk to freedom, a motionless journey.

Originally published in Triggerfish Critical Review (December 26, 2014)

Sunrise, California Mojave Desert

I listen to broken grass...

I listen to broken grass…

I listen to broken grass

Dried out by summer

Popping underfoot like

Frozen grass in winter.

Originally published in Heron Tree (February 1, 2015)

Nose Park Hill, Alberta, Canada

2:00 AM

2:00 AM

No dogs bark at this hour,

Desolate, an abandoned field burnt by the sun,

Dry shaving curls on a workshop floor long unswept.

I hear a motorcycle roar along a distant road,

Harsher than the sound of sawing wood.

Then silence thickens like concrete putty sealing

Joints and crevices of a room

Gradually deafening to the slightest vibration.

The world is asleep, I am awake.

Passing time heaves, a resting animal.

Now is the moment to descend into stillness

Deep as darkness enfolding underground rivers,

Delicate as a tissue broken by a cough.

I am solitary as a metal tool

Seeking the warm grasp of a skillful hand.

Before the smallest beginning of a noise like a flint flake

Tears into the fabric of the night, I will take long draughts, cupping my hands

Descending as birds into the springs of tranquility.

Originally published in This Dark Matter (January 30, 2015)

Antique wall clock