Seek The Harvest

With your hands

you seek the harvest

in compost piles, pig manure, garden beds

and the handle of a hoe that leaves

calluses and blisters

In your hands

you hold the harvest of the earth

cook it in a heavenly sauce

let it fill all who will humbly receive

See you hands

become the harvest

it is now growing in you

give thanks

press the palms together

break them in your labor

giving each piece with joy

I wrote this poem for the Harvest Thanksgiving Celebration in October 2012 at the Asian Rural Institute. I read the poem as a performance during the event. I worked with a Japanese poet who was also volunteering at ARI. Tomi helped me translate my poetry into Japanese and I helped him translate his poem into English. It was a beautiful exchange of poetic and cultural fruits. 

Not So Simplicity

On the day that you realize

not all white, American, once-where-Buddhists

understand

that all beings are one

because they hate roaches

you will also hear of free ranging Jersey cows

in Georgia

eating out of mother’s flower bed

milk so fatty the skim can be butter simply

seal in a jar and let the kids make a game

of rolling it back and forth across the floor

as the farm van climbs the hill at the

end of the workday, filled with fall

conversations

the smell of deep soil and fresh carrots

you will also see the dirt drying to a grey powder across

your hands, showing well the lines where

the skin prunes

curling in upon itself after

tugging all day

at the earth

in the dream worthy blues

of your darkened bedroom

you will tell your wife that she

never has and never will understand you

completely

which is true

for everyone but God

though

you don’t have to tell her that way

Dream Home

The deep yellow sunlight baring through the window of my west facing third story dorm room. I totter around these tight commons and narrow shiters.

I've tried to call this home. The twitching in my eye tells me I've failed.

For four years I’ve been drinking my coffee while standing in the shower, letting the spin of the day burn off.

It is an odd existence of fluorescent lighting and empty hallway paranoia. Incomplete sounds slurped into pipes and wires and pushed through walls.