RAINY AFTERNOON IN KIGALI (WITH THE BLUES)
Kigali, Rwanda, January 4, 2013

The wind blew all afternoon,
blue my mood, moody the blues
on the box, bleak and blue when
Robert Johnson took over the airwaves;
the wind blew louder and then
Paul Butterfield's mouth harp grew louder
and bluer than even my mood of desolation
which mirrored the sky darkening
 
outside my open window, rain
blowing in, thunder rumbling; then
Jerry Garcia re-inventing the guitar
blue and heartbreaking and new
and old and wild and timeless,
as are the hills of Kigali outside
drenched in downpour, lightning,
and drumming on roofs near and far;
 
ah blessed the weather, blessed
the blues, blessed all music of
passionate restraint which knows
the beat beat beat of hearts all through
a poverty stricken hard-working
city with a bloody history of death
seeking redemption day by day;
and the rain is raving, and so are
 
Wynton Marsalis and Eric Clapton
playing a wild jazzy New Orleans blues
mourning rejoicing dancing weeping— 
it is all life life life, and so is the rain
reminding one and all from where
we came (that rocking cradle of Whitman's).
When silence falls, I am at peace.
Soon the night, soon a welcoming silence.
                          
First published in Jerry Jazz Musician.
  
 

MEDITATION OF AN OLD MAN STANDING ON A BRIDGE


Leaves fall in a slow spiraling drift, years pass almost
unnoticed until suddenly decades have vanished, life's pages
 
turn with an inevitable rhythm; even the wildest moments
of joy and passion are now infused with grief; we silently
lament beauty's loss, the rending of intelligence, the dimming
 
of wit, the harshness seeping into laughter, disappearance
of hope and faith, turning of eyes to stare towards
 
the dark maw yawning before us, creeping steadily
in our direction; when younger we imagined futures filled
with butterflies, blooming flowers, bouquets of love,
 
and a promise life had no limitations save those we chose to accept;
now joy is too often found in moments enshrined
 
in memory where light shines with an abundance
no longer found in the daily struggle to get from one task
to another, the effort to swim through grief to the other side
 
where acceptance allegedly awaits; too often the journey
merely deepens the pain of loss of parents, lovers, friends,
 
the smothering of the conviction that we are still capable,
still worthy of the time of others, still more than witness
to the epic that engulfs us all on our paths toward an end
 
none of us can fathom; night looms over the shoulder
of brightest day, and I turn to quiet moments
 
found in books, or music, or great works of art, or the still
beauty of forest, stream, garden, mountain soaring above,
or the discovery of an otter half-submerged in a creek
 
sending ripples in every direction, just as we send ripples
with every act we perform, good or bad, useful or valueless,
 
and every act of generosity (whether word, embrace,
smile, helping hand, or simple forgiveness) becomes a stay
against all that threatens the ability to survive the inevitable
 
fear, sense of loss, sinking into the pre-death of depression;
struggles to help others are therefore holy acts, acts by which
 
we help ourselves find moments that provide neither hope nor clarity,
nor surety that our lives have meaning, but are nonetheless
moments where we find beauty, find a kind of truth beyond
 
definition, a peace that eases (for a second or an hour) mind's clamor,
fills the darkness with light, eases our hearts for a brief time,
 
but then all we have is brief, all we know vanishes, and so
it seems good to quietly celebrate all that we can find which is worthy;
thus I can stare at streams of butterflies overhead and smile
 
at their journey, watch an egret fish and not mourn the fish caught,
but accept my part in life's cycle over which I have no control,
 
no understanding, no part to play beyond that of witness;
sanctus, sanctus, sanctus, holy is the ability to accept loss,
to face myself in the stream where the fish meets its fate and realize
 
(without anguish) I too will soon leave this world of sorrow and pain
and beauty and its moments of horror and joy inextricably intertwined.
  
First published in Current.