Not on my time
are the feats of nature
performed.
No, I am still
so young and silly.
You see, I expect
all my teachers
to be human
and all their lessons
written down in ink!
Wanting the flood of revelation
without first building
the seaworthy boat that may
be lifted on that fire-tide.
Carried to a new continent.
O here I go again,
stalking the outskirts
of security…I mean society!
Muttering, mumbling, dreaming
of getting even
with the world
while the world moves on,
bored by the little dramas
in my head.
I’m beginning
to get bored with them as well.
Alleluia! Time for the big drama!
O who will come
find me if I do not
invite them by name?
What noble benefactor
will befriend me
if I do not remember
to still my search
long enough to be found?
Who will sing back
to my soul
if I fail
to stand and proclaim
her dark anthem
her dark joy
her dark passion?
Who? The live oak
standing in a row
along Ernest Robles Way?
The bird whose
eyes are blacker
and shinier than coffee beans?
Whose wings are two
thunderscrolls, whose breast
is the pearl-inlaid cloud
that has emptied
of rain? Who
builds her revelation-boat
out of simple essences,
out of song
to ride the wind-tide?
Not on my time
dearest spirit
does union come.
No; you call the tune.
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