Jis Funnin' Wit-Cha   Thursday, February 11, 2016





Weird pics this week. Don't mean much except there were all in one place in my files and easy to latch onto.

My poems are  not weird, not intentionally anyway. The new poems are from last week. The old one are from the first section, titled "Passages," from my most recent book, New Days & New Ways.

My library poems are by Naomi Shihab Nye, one of my favorite poets. Of Palestinian-American descent, she has a number of books out, including her own work  and anthologies of poets from the Mid-East where she  spent many of her younger years. I have several of her books and use her work here frequently. I was reminded last week of how much I  like her when a fellow reader at a spoken word event I do weekly read from one of her books. I don't have the book that was read from that night, but I do  have one of  her collections I particularly like and which I will use this week for all of my library poems.

The book is Red Suitcase. It was published in 1994 by BOA Editions, Ltd.


Me
pity the early morning weatherman

Naomi  Shihab Nye
His Secret

Me
cloud mine

Naomi  Shihab Nye   
The Man Whose Voice Has Been Taken from His Throat

Me
the best there is on offer

Naomi  Shihab Nye
Tongue- Tied
First Hawaiian Bank
Next Time

Me
so much I could tell them now

Naomi  Shihab Nye 
My Grandmother in the Stars
Violin

Me
another Sunday morning

Naomi  Shihab Nye 
Arabic

Me
the god-glut

Me
night lays in

Naomi  Shihab Nye   
Jerusalem

Me
I guess they really liked the drummer

Naomi  Shihab Nye 
Holy Land

Me
finally
like soft hands

Naomi  Shihab Nye 
How Palestinians Keep Warm

Me
to honor the light

Naomi  Shihab Nye 
Texas, the first time

Me
muffin-making and other activities of the long  night 

 Naomi  Shihab Nye 
Inside the Riddle

Me
life in Technicolor lanes  

Naomi  Shihab Nye 
shoulders

Me
party time

Me
   coffeehouse morning        












Here  we go for the new week, a new poem.













pity the early morning weatherman

dark clouds
north

bright sun
south

what's it to be today?

what's coming?
what's going away

chicken entrails
would be helpful

a chicken would be
helpful

two eggs over easy
would be helpful

an Aunt Jemima pancake
would be helpful

two large sausage patties
would be helpful

a pig would be helpful

a chicken and a pig and a
farm would be helpful

a cup of dark coffee
that'd be great...

~~~

pity the early morning
weatherman

how hard it must be to
prognosticate
weather
before breakfast...











 First from this week's featured poet, Naomi Shihab Nye and her book Red Suitcase.















His Secret

The field  wraps  around him.

He takes in his fist the 3-winged grasses,
the stick shaped like a Y.

Filling his bag with fallen petals,
shiny wrappers, husks.

Filling his eyes.

He is welcoming the bent weed,
spinning the hay.

Tying the shoelace
to the stone.

No one answers his questions better
than the split brick he hit
with a hammer.

Above him, a hundred flying birds call out
"Alone! Alone! Alone!"

**

At the heart of the apple,
at the heart of the worm.

A boy filled a bottle of water.
He let it sit.
Three days later it held the power
of three days.











 Another new one from last week














cloud mine

as usual
I  had intended this morning
to  dive deeply into the well of
poetic beauty and mystery, but,
as usual
my easily distracted, squirrel-deep brain
got sidetracked...

in this instance
by thinking about an article I read
about our microbial   cloud, research
showing us to be, much like Charlie Brown's
friend Pigpen, enveloped in our own  unique and
individualized cloud of microbes exuded  by out body
into the air around, hanging onto us like a baby platypus
hiding under its mama from a skulking Tasmanian
devil...

a cloud of the  elements of us, as identifiable as fingerprints,
carried with us  always, meeting with others on street
or as lovers in our beds, exchanging bits of  our clouds, so that
wherever we are we are  always ourselves, plus some part of
the rest of us...

think of that...

the whole world
in a cloud of us, like a crown in a train  station,
individuals as we struggle, true, but at the same time
part of a  larger creature than just "me"

that is the earthly cloud that is all of us, but
not just the like us, for the cloud includes the cloud of  all
living creatures, making a cloud of us, all the yous  and mes, plus
all the cats and cows and snakes and lions and tigers and elephants
and birds (red, red robin and wide-eyed owl and fierce-taloned eagle)
and all the rest, the mouse and the worm and the fermenting cheese
and the caterpillar and the butterfly and the angry.  stinging wasp,
what a marvelous cloud we make
together...

Emerson's over-soul,  but not exactly as he
imagined it...












Another from Naomi Nye, again (as will be  all of her poems this week) from her book Red Suitcase.














The Man Whose Voice Has Been Taken from His Throat

remains  all supple hands and gesture

skin of language
fusing its finest  seam

in fluent light
with a raised finger

dance of lips
each sentence complete

he speaks to the shadow
of leaves

strung tissue paper
snipped into delicate  flags

on which side of the conversation
did anyone begin?

wearing two skins
the brilliant question mark of Mexico
stands on its head
like an answer













From  "Passages," the first section from New Days & New Ways.












the best there is on offer

    dark
morning rain

light
but steady

the street
an ebony mirror

streaked red
like a lipstick message

from a disappointed
lover

a no-promises
day...

take it
as you find it

it's the best there  is
on offer












Here are several shorter pieces by Naomi Shihab Nye, my poet for the week.















Tongue-Tied

Someone just told me our taste buds die
as we grow older.
They die one-by-one, or in groups.
A child has whole galaxies.
We're lucky by not to retain a few.

This is what a child cries
if something tastes bad.

All day I walk around opening
     and closing my mouth.

The tortilla becomes a deeper  tortilla.
The blackberry, packaged in its
     small square crypt,
reaches all the way back to its bus
for me, for what is left of me,
this dissolving kingdom
between my teeth.


First Hawaiian Bank

Her hair snipped and tightly curled gives me great comfort,
standing behind her in the long line for money. That someone
thinks to do this to hair, a farmer's neat crop, rows of sorghum with
rich furrows between. She wears little turquoise studs in her ears
and speaks of her granddaughter with a grandmother's lavish
patience. She rides the express bus and tints her lips deep  red.
Lives unlike mine, you save me. I  would grow so tired were it not
for you.


Next Time

Ginkgo trees lie 1,000 years.
Eating the leaves will clear your brain.
When I heard about them, I thought of my mother,
how much I would like to sit under one with her
in the ancient shade, nibbling
the flesh, the stem, the central vein.












How unexpected the yearnings that seem to come out of nowhere.













so much I could tell them now

my mother dead
sixteen years now and I think
of her often, remember times and  places,
such moments in so many paces,
how, with a switch from a handy tree, she would
remind me of her unrealized expectations of me, how as
a very young child she would sit with me every night to read and
how, from that, I learned to love reading, how to release
my imagination, and how, from that, I did the same for my own
child and how, from that he too lives many lives, the real and
some, like me, imagined, my gift to him as it was
my mother's gift to me...

and how I saw her care for my father as he lay through long years
of dying and how after his passing, I watched her jump into a new life,
a faithful wife widowed twice over, for the first time then
since her early teens a life  not bounded by the needs and desires
of another, how she jumped into releasing the imagination
and art within her, her  pride as she gave me her first painting,
a copy of a photograph I had taken many years before
of yellow sunflowers like miniature suns reflecting on blue water,
and how she laughed at my reaction when she told me how much she
paid for the frame (the painting in its overpriced frame hanging now in my
bedroom)

how I sat  with her as she sold her  first painting and the dinner
we had to celebrate, and the way my son, a month old when
we picked him up at the adoption agency,  the way
he wouldn't stop crying until she held him,
wrapped him in her arms as she had wrapped
me and soothed my fears and bundled me to her breast
in soft, unquestioning love...

all these memories and the time several nights ago
when came for the first time, unexpected
and unbidden, a moment of such yearning when
I wished I could talk to her again, and my father too,
he dead for thirty-five years,
we never talked much, he and I, and my mother
as well, a loner in my deepest self even early one, never
revealing my deeper currents to either, so much
unsaid, so many tales untold...

so much I would tell now if a moment came
that I could again...











Two  more from Naomi Shihab Nye.














My Grandmother in the Stars

It  is possible we will not meet again
on earth. To think this fills my throat
with dust. Then there is only the sky
eyeing the universe together.

Just now, the neighbor's horse must be standing
patiently, hoof on stone, waiting for his day
to open. What you think of him,
and the village's  one  heroic cow,
is the knowledge I wish to gather.
I bow to your rugged feet,
the moth-eaten scarves  that know your hair.

Where we live in the world
is never one  place. Our hearts,
those  dogged mirrors, keep flashing us
moons before we are ready for them.
You and I on a roof at sunset,
our two languages adrift,
heart saying, Take this home  with you,
never again,
and only memory making us rich.



Violin

It's been sleeping under the bed
for twenty years.

Once I  let it out every day.
Neighbors picked up bits of music
wedged into grass.

I  stroked the resiny hairs of bow.
All my tutors,lunatics, but my mother
left us alone.

Sometimes a sonata
broken in the middle -
I stitched it together
slowly,slowly.

Graceful shoulders,
elegant neck -
wheat do you know now
that you didn't know then?













And now another from "Passages."















another Sunday morning

    moon
falling toward the west horizon
slips behind a lacy morning cloud,
hiding
the shadows of its ancient
scars

**

grackles
on cue
fly form their nighttime
nest
cover the sky,
dark cape
of the Phantom of the Morning

**

strong winds,
warm and wet,
blow
smells of the
southern sea
across
the stark remains
of northern
winter

**

light
seeps
from a pinched
eastern horizon,
the sky not ready to open
to any new day

**

moon shadows
fade
as sun shadows
grow
toward the retreating
night

**

cat
does her morning
stretch -
doubles
her length
front to back.
;legs reaching in both
directions,
belly on the ground
tails straight in the air,
little red anus
like lantern light
at the end of a train

**

dog
stirs
in her bed,
too old for morning
calisthenics -
eyelid lift, up, then
down,
enough for now













From her book, Red Suitcase, Naomi Shihab Nye.















Arabic

(Jordan, 1992)

The man with laughing eyes stopped smiling
to  say, "Until you speak Arabic -
- you will not understand  pain."

Something  to do  with the back of the head ,
an Arab carries sorrow in the back of the head
that only language cracks, the thrum of stones

weeping, grating, hinge on an old metal gate.
"Once you know," he whispered, "you can enter the room
whenever you need to. Music you  heard from a distance,

the slapped drum of a stranger's wedding,
wells  up inside of your skin, inside rain, a thousand
pulsing tongues. You  are changed."

Outside, the snow  had finally stopped.
In a land where snow rarely falls,
we had  felt our days grow white and still.

I thought pain had no tongue. Or every tongue
at once, supreme translator, sieve. I admit my
shame. To live on the brink of Arabic, tugging

its rich threads without understanding
how to weave the rug...I have no gift.
The sound, but not the sense.

I kept looking over his shoulder for someone else
to talk   to, recalling my dying friend who only scrawled
I can't write. What good would any grammar have been

to her  then! I touche his arm, held it hard,
which sometimes you don't do in the Middle East, and said,
I'll  work on it, feeling sad
for his good strict heart, but later in the slick street
ailed a taxi by shouting Pain! and it stopped
in every language and opened its doors.











 I read an interesting article on Santa Muerte, which led to this and the multiplicity of gods abounding around us now and in our history.













the  god-glut

Santa Muerte,
Our Holy Lady of Death,
the skeletal  saint a reminder of the ever-present  death
who  awaits us all, in the meantime,
worshiped as bringer of health,  security and a
safe  delivery to the afterlife...

originating in Mexico at the time of Spanish conquest, a death
cult at first, ancient folklore of a defeated people,
a new lore created by mingling elements of Christianity,
another death cult brought to American jungles by
the Conquistadores, an amalgam of old and new
banned and persecuted by the Catholic powers of  priests
and military, worship of the Lady hidden
in the privacy of Her follower's homes

until the twentieth century when shrines began
to  appear in public spaces, Her presence growing,  not  a
new religion but a very old one growing as her congregants
went public and attracted new believers...

Her return part of a modern trend as sects proliferate and splinter,
new cravings for the security awaken old gods om am age frayed
by the realities of uncertainty, insecurity and the ever-present horrors
lurking in the shadows, peering  from the dark  places where hide our
greatest fears - new gods and new faiths assembled from the disparate
utilities of gods long dominant and the wreckage of stagnant
and  unresponsive theologies, old theologies re-emerging,
new saints christened, old saints rediscovered..

as Santa  Muerte finds a new foothold in belief followed
soon, who knows maybe by Odin and the Valkyries,
Zeus and the gods of Olympus, Amaterasu,
Helios,Huitzilopotchli, Ra,Ah Chu Kak, Ashtart -
so many gods - we are so good at  finding and making gods
as they are needed, lasting until they fade again as will those
that fill cathedrals, temples and mosques today, so many gods found,
lost, found again, coming back for a second chance...

believing in none, I welcome them all equally - better too many god
competing than the hegemony of  too few, better to keep all possible gods
and their zealous adherents weak, all the would be soul-thieves
lost in the crowd of soul-thieves...

I say let's have gods everywhere so that people like me  can  be safe
in our apostasy...

maybe I'll join the crowded field and make one of my own -

Santa no Le Hace

"Our Holy Lady of Never Mind", passing the plate daily
at a coffeehouse near you...











From "Passages," first section of the  book New Days & New Ways, published in 2012, my last book of poems, followed by a book of flash fiction.















night lays in
     
    night
lays in
with a sigh
like an old woman
pulling covers up to her chin

breeze
rustles trees
like feather dusters
brushing the stars, frogs
come alive in the creek,
nighthawks hunt...

on my patio
I strip  down, lay back in my chair
and join the frog symphony,
imagine
the fresh,cool mud
between a maze of reeds
on the rain-freshened creek-side,
imagine the blood-tasty mosquito caught
on my long green tongue,
settle,
squish into the
singing
night












Another by Naomi Nye, from the Middle East where her heritage runs deep.












Jerusalem

"Let's be the same wound if we must bleed.
 Let's fight side by side, even if the enemy 
 is ourselves. I am yours, you are mine."
              -Tommy Olofsson, Sweden


I'm not interested in
who suffered the most.
I'm interested in
people getting over it.

Once when my father was a boy
a stone hit him on  the head.
Hair would never grow there.
Our fingers found the tender spot
and its riddle: the boy who has fallen
stands  up. A bucket of pears
in his mother's doorway welcomes him home.
The pears are not crying.
Later his friend who threw the stone
says he was aiming at a bird.
And my father starts growing wings.

Each carries a tender spot:
something our lives forgot to give us.
A man builds a house and says,
"I am native now."
A woman speaks to a tree in place
of her son. And olives come.
A child's  poem says,
"I don't like wars,
they end  up in monuments."
He's painting a bird with wings
wide enough to cover two  roofs  at once.

Why are we  so monumentally slow?
Soldiers stalk a pharmacy:
big guns, little pills.
If you tilt your head just slightly
it's ridiculous.

There's a place in my brain
where hate won't grow.
I touch its riddle: wind, and seeds.
Something pokes us as we sleep.

It's late but everything comes next.











Did my regular Wednesday night open mike gig  at the coffeehouse. It went well, good poems, good  audience. Sold four books.















I guess they really liked the drummer

read last night
at the coffeehouse

not poems,
but from my recent book
of flash fiction

and experiment with drum
accompaniment

worked well
sold
four  books

I guess they really liked
the drummer









As I said earlier, all of the poems by Naomi Shihab Nye this week are from her book, Red Suitcase. The book is divided  into three parts. This poem and the  two previous are from the first section,  titled "In Every Language."

Many of the poems  in that section come from her Middle East heritage as daughter of a Palestinian Christian refugee in Lebanon   and her experience as a youth born in Missouri and living in Jerusalem and San Antonio. Although she travels internationally,  she continues to call San Antonio her home.










Holy Land

Over beds wearing thick  homespun cotton
     Sitti the Ageless floated
poking straight  pins into sheets
     to line our  fevered forms,
"the magic," we called it,
     her crumpling of syllables,
pitching them up and out,
     petals parched by sun,
the names of grace, hope,
     in her graveled grandmother tongue.
She stretched a single sound
     till it became two -
perhaps she could have said
     anything,
the word for peanuts,
     or waterfalls,
and made a prayer.

After telling the doctor "Go home,"
     she rubbed our legs,
pressing into my hand
     someone's lost basketball medal,
"Look at this man reaching for God."
     She who  could not leave town
while her lemon tree held fruit,
     nor while it dreamed of  fruit.
In a land of priests,
     patriarchs, muezzins,
a woman who couldn't read
     drew lines between our pain
and earth,
     stroked out skins
to make them cool,
     our limbs which had already
traveled far beyond her world,
     carrying the click of distances
in the smooth, untroubled soles
     of  their shoes.













Here are two shorter  pieces from "Passages."














finally

the sun

the river
glows
orange and
bright

skitters
as dragonflies
wake


like soft hands

like  
soft  hands
stroking

sweet-breath
summer breezes

midnight lover











Another from the first section of Naomi Nye's book, Red Suitcase.















How Palestinians Keep Warm

Choose one word and say it over
and over, till it builds  a fire inside your mouth.
Adhafera,  the one who  holds  out,  Alphard,  solitary one,
the stars were  named by people like us.
Then nod and blink,  no right or wrong
in their yellow eyes. Dirah, little house,
unfold your walls and take us in.

My well went dry, my grandfather's  grapes
have stopped singing. I  stir the coals,
my babies cry. How will  I teach them
they belong to the stars?
They build forts of white stone and say, "This is mine."
How will I teach them  to love Mizar, veil, cloak,
to know that behind it ancient man
is fanning a flame/
He stirs the dark wind of our breath.
He says the veil  will rise
till the see us shining, spreading like embers
on the blessed hills.

Well, I made that up. I'm not so sure about Mizar.
But I know you need to keep  warm here on earth
and when your shawl is as thin as mine is,  you tell stories.












A poem to the glory of a late-winter hill country day.













to honor the light

a cool, clear morning,
the sun
like a halo around the city

makes small sunspots
out of the two yellow cabs
just passing

mobile
sunspots
in a nimbus morning

promised sun and warm
later,
makes me think I might
sit outside and have
a  beer this afternoon, my favorite
from Mexico,
a Corona

to honor the light of this
radiant
day












The next poem, coming also  from the first section of Nye's book, tells about her her first time in Texas before it became her home.














Texas, the First Time

The state was  a ream of paper
spread out flat in front of us.
We were writing a long song,
St. Louis to Mexico, but our throats
felt do dry to sing it.

At a silver gas station a man said
tires would grow bubbles and explode.
A car might spin and fly.
"You had a close call."
His voice was a glistening nail.

For tin thin hours I dreamed of flying.
I  gripped the handle till my knuckles ached.
At a roadside stop my father threw a Coke bottle
at a fence post. He was mad at us for arguing.
The silence dripped down for miles.













From  "Passages" - remembering a thing, or two.















muffin-making and other activities of the long night

    it's a bright and sunny
Sunday morning
and I'm thinking about sex...

now I can tell
some of you
are surprised that I'm thinking
about sex
on such a bright and sunny
Sunday morning,
but I don't know why...

I'm an old gent
after all,
a getting-on gent,
a heading-for-the-last-round-up gent,
a drawing-near-to-that-last-hill-rise-cowboy

and men of my particular chronological condition
think about a lot of things, you know,
the weather,
dumb-ass politicians,
uncomplicated bowel movements,
occasionally a poem,
and sex...

mostly sex

cause even though we may not be
getting much of it
anymore,
sex is still the prime concern,
at least of those whose
wilty
whiskaresser
have yet to fall off,
and since my whiskaresser still abides
I spend a lot of my thinking time
thinking about sex...

that's just the way it is...

just ask any  whiskaresser-intact
old man
and he will confirm
if he's even  the least  bit honest
that sex beats weather
and dumb-assed politicians
to think about
any old
day...

in particular
this bright and sunny Sunday morning
I'm thinking about  a particular
girl I once knew
a long time back, back
in the old days when Ike was still  hitting par
with Mamie...

a particular girl
I'm remembering whose nipples
were in constant confrontation

the one always hard
like a marble,
proudly erect like a sweet dark cherry
on a cream-puff pie

the other lazy
always lying back,
holding back, small and unobtrusive...

her conflicted nipples like
her conflicted nature, the one ever-erect
showing the wild part of her, the part
always  ready for the next
adventure,  the next
sensation -

touch me,  kiss me,  play me
lightly with your teeth, she'd say,
lick  me like a triple-dip ice cream cone -

(and other such things she'd say
I'm much to shy to  repeat in a public  forum
such as this one)

but there was still the other side of her,
the Betty-Crocker-in-a-white-frill-apron-muffin-baker  side,
the nipple so slow to rise, like reluctant muffins,
so hard to arouse, the nipple of modesty,
of consequence and restraint, of look before you leap,
the nipple of probably shouldn't leap  at all,
the nipple of banked fires and still nights and clouds  slow moving
against dark and starless skies...

but the fire  was not out, just laid low,
waiting for the breeze of soft whispers to flame again,
the re-ignite the stars, to push the clouds and clear the sky
so that the fire when it came was hot and bright as any other, only
slower to  rise...

and it was in the conflagration that the two  sides of her
joined in the end -

confusing to me sometimes, leaving me never knowing
which of her two sides  would  come with me
through the long night until  dawn...

but the truth is, while possibilities varied,
there were no bad nights
when sooner or later her secret identity
was revealed...












This poem is from "Brushing Lives," the third and last section of Naomi Nye's book. It's the next to last poem in the book.















Inside the Riddle

It's blue in here.

There are grocery stores, with soap.

I'm looking for someone
who might have an  answer
big enough  not to be insulting,
but everyone looks preoccupied,
blankly solemn.

I'm staring at an umbrella,
a yard shrine on  El Paso Street.
What is it keeping away?
Vagrant dogs, dogs with shark teeth,
men with anchors blurred
beneath  their sleeves.

This little house of Mary,
this concrete grotto studded
with seashells and chipped glass,
I would like to be a Catholic
with such a straight faith.

Or a Muslim,fasting and praying -
I would kneel on stones
beside the  men of Cairo.

To believe God has reasons
seems too petty for God.












A wonderful morning that reminds me of another wonderful morning.














life in Technicolor lanes

a cold morning
on Rolling Ridge in the heart of the hills
of  northwest San Antonio

early morning bright5
and the smell of  chimneys blazing

the scent of wood burning
drifting across the neighborhood

memories
of a campfire
in a clearing among  tall pines

hiking white frosted snow trails
over mountain crests
in December

memories of being young
and essential

life in Technicolor lanes of bright
dreams
and confident passions












This is the last poem this week by Naomi Shihab Nye. It is also the last poem in her book, Red Suitcase.














Shoulders

A man crosses the street in rain,
stepping gently, looking two times  north and south,
because his son is asleep on his shoulder.

No car must splash him.
No car  drive too near his shadow.

This man carries the world's most sensitive cargo
but he's not marked.
Nowhere does his jacket say FRAGILE,
HANDLE WITH CARE.

His ear fills up with breathing.
He hears the hum of a boy's dream
deep  inside him.

We're not going to be able
to  live  in this world
if we're not willing to do what he's doing
with each other.

The road will  only be wide.
The rain will never stop falling.











 Here is my last piece from the "Passages" section of New Days & New Ways. There are five sections in the book. Maybe next week I'll get into another of them.













party time

recent rain
turned the creek
slushy,
waking mud-crusted frogs
from their summer sleep,
turning the creek
at 2 a.m.
into a cacophony of bull-deep
mating calls
and feminine-froggy squeals of
procreating pleasure

if the creek was a West Texas
roadside
dance hall,
I'd say the joint was
jumping












Morning at the coffeehouse, things to see.













coffeehouse morning

pretty little red-headed girl
in a glittery princess
dress
and silver shoes
can't sit still
grandma can't  stop
brushing her
hair
oh my! how she brushes
that red-gold hair 

~~~

an old man
watches from afar
thinks
of  pretty little girls
he has known
and how they grow
oh my!
how they grow

~~~

eyes that sparkle
compete with her
dress
oh my! how they sparkle

poppa
looking on
sparkle reflects
in his eyes as well
oh my!
how poppa sparkles
too

~~~

old man thinks
how a child's smile
lights the day, lightening the load
oh my! how it lightens the load








As usual, everything belongs to who made it. You're welcome to use my stuff, just, if you do, give appropriate credit to "Here and Now" and to me

Also as usual, I am Allen Itz owner and producer of this blog, and diligent seller of books, specifically these and specifically here:
 

Amazon, Barnes and Noble, iBookstore, Sony eBookstore, Copia, Garner's, Baker & Taylor, eSentral, Scribd, Oyster, Flipkart, Ciando and Kobo (and, through Kobo,  brick and mortar retail booksellers all across America and abroad)




Poetry

New Days & New Ways


Places and Spaces
 




Always to the Light






Goes Around Comes Around




Pushing Clouds Against the Wind





And, for those print-bent, available at Amazon and select coffeehouses in San Antonio




Seven Beats a Second






Fiction


Sonyador - The Dreamer








                                                            
  Peace in Our Time
 

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