I. LEMON-LESS CRISTOFO

Columbus long searched the seas;

his sailors grumbled lemon-less,

challenged his authority

for fear they must return from whence they came or die.

The curlew came

the last birds of the fall migration crossed his prow;

the birds, blown somewhat off-course,

calmed the men

discoverers of an already discovered land.

What exactly Christofo proved

not already known elsewhere

is doubtful. The birds did not stop

til on the next leg of their journey southward, they paused

to gorge themselves on

crowberries, crowberries, crowberries;

until, at double their weight their breasts dripped with purple juices

and they were ready to resume their flight.

Columbus began the destruction of the Americas

that continues to this day.

Eskimo curlew, his aid in great crisis,

was last sighted in Barbados in 1963 -

thirty years ago the last Eskimo curlew migrated from Alaska,

to the tip of South America and back...

about twice the distance of Christopher's first complete journey.

Though gorged, still delicate the curlew were;

following nature's command

they flew without fear.

In the end the hunters came

desiring to slaughter them, with everything else

beautiful and self-reliant

(so small in flight, and yet so strong).

A mass of birds like soldiers in God's army,

who never claimed the sky or pampas

except in passing through each year.

II.CURLEW

I gleen and glide.

At the first signs of winter in the Arctic

I gather my young,

All of us full of fat to burn on our flight.

I follow the air currents;

Soon we are a migration of plover and curlew

Heading for Tierra del Fuego.

I ride the air drafts...

Heat rising off the crops and fields,

The air cool above the wooded areas.

I stop for a snack, weary and hungry, in Labrador;

Gorged on delicious berries, I am ready for the open Atlantic.

Next stop : the islands of the Carribean

Where sky and water meld

Sparkling blue, green, turquoise.

Stopping to eat here and then, further south

I pause midst the cattle of the Llanos in Argentina and Columbia.

Later, in September and November

I feed on the bounty of termites and other insects

The Cerreado and the Pampas yield

And, of course, the crowberries !

With a fare fit for a world traveler and gourmet...

I eat while basking in the sun !

I glide on streams and rivers of air

Until I must return northward.

Nature tells me to mate and where to bear my young;

Within me lies the self-perpetuating joy of living in the skies.

It is the return :

Running the gauntlet of the hunters

Which decimates our number.

With one great bang after another

The hunters claim our lives and our freedom.

Year after year, they are there with their great guns :

We who fly on fat are a tasty meal.

The hunters are finally curbed

But the plover will have to fly alone !

My time is past and my family gone to hunters all.

THE CARPORT BEHIND THE STORE

a moment's break...I muse :

there is no room for poetry here !

I know the pigeons are sitting on the windowsill

by my desk at home.

I cannot be there now.

there is no room for poetry here !

I must remember or anticipate a more restful time.

perhaps this is a quiet port midst the cosmic storm :

luring my words out

as the mother cat on a cold day

leads her kittens into the sun.

can we just catch the waterfall-like syllables

as they cascade to their own birthday...?

remembering I create this message for you

in a wintry carport behind a busy store

having to grasp tightly my work...

the freezing wind always trying to

pull away this page.

PASSAGE

I try to make a record of our lives

On a passage into tomorrow;

We all try to live out this existence

Not exhausted of meaning.

I want to stop time

Call you back

Making today to be a great ship

Delivering her voyagers

To a place the hours cannot scar ---

A land yesterday's hunger, and death, cannot reach.

In the end we know this cannot be.

It consoles us that we are not alone in this life;

Only a great storm can sink this fleet.

We hear the cold winds of winter rise.

We hear them whistling from out these portals

Gathering strength at whim

To crush our oh so foolish, little Armada.

ABSENCE

is only

another word

for a different color of the night...

ONENESS & DUALITY

I AM ALL

WOMEN:

A PART OF ME

RESIDES IN YOU;

YOU ARE ME.

TEARS WELL

DEEP FROM THE EARTH IN MY EYES ---

MY EYES ARE GLAD.

MY LOVE IS HERE,

BUT I (IN YOU) WAS ALWAYS WITH HIM

AND HE HAS ALWAYS;

OVER & OVER AGAIN BEEN

WITH ME (IN ME).

WE ARE TOGETHER:

AT LAST I AM HERE---

UNCLOAKED;

NAKED BEFORE HIM !