Jeff McCallum

There is a pale, cold pastel to everything when someone I love is dying and I am in love. They intertwine, pleach, form a hedge which hides and a shelter from the heat of the moment as I walk the path of joy and sorrow.

Would I could

call the wind

whisper light

lift the petals of your flowering eyes

to view the stars within

Would I could

call the rain

mist and dew

drop gentle on your silk soft cheek

to see all sorrow wash away

Would I could

call the moon

cast pale light

lavish on the shadow of your almost smile

to see the pearls within

Would I could

call the earth

part as paramour

pleach the core of soaring soul

to view the stars within

Would I could

command the universe

race to meet your gentle heart

hold you as a sacred seed

to see the flowers within

Diagnosis

Though thunder rolls through pregnant skies

let forecast serve as guide, not eyes;

for rain drops may or may not fall,

the clouds may cease to grey at all.

Emerging sun holds storms at bay

as song birds sing to crown the day.

Perhaps the rain will fall and pass

as gentle as sweet dew on grass;

refreshing fields, renewing life;

re-birth with rain as hope’s midwife.

The skies will open, clouds all clear

as rain and sun coax life appear.

And if the worst should come to be

as violent storm uprooting tree,

for each that falls, who won’t survive,

new seeds will sprout, fresh roots will thrive.

All those who meld with universe

don’t take their last step, but their first.

The Weather Map

A forecast is not prophesy

only an educated guess

based

one would hope

on data

experience

vaults filled with scrolls and computer print-outs

years of field tests

modeling

statistics and probability

Yet the wind shifts with the tides

the tide with the moon

the moon with the seasons

A prognosis

on the other hand

while much more scientific

may require you to co-operate

Your whole hearted

fatalistic acceptance

and sometimes

your continued unhealthy lifestyle

to become an actuality

Doubt that wind shifts with the tides

the tide with moon

the moon with the season

I don't condone bricks or bags of urine being tossed, sensless acts, like blocking the entry to a hospital or the street in front of a fire station, thoughtless; the very fear of violence has kept many regimes in power. Our voices need to be heard, not our actions condemed.

If violence

were not the fear

would helicopters

be disturbing the day

Labor Day

not so coincidently

If violence were not the threat

would we be not so similar

to a developing nation

try to shake the shackles of a regime

that tortured

killed

had secret police and prisons

and this is not the election

just a convention of like mind people

condoning a limited curtailing

of the Bill of Rights

or the freedoms they guarantee

If violence

were off the table

would the police dogs return

to snarl and snack on protesters

desiring only that their voice be heard

that freedom reign

that The Dream be actualized

Labor Day in St. Paul

Helicopters hover

or crisscross the neighbourhood by day

disturbing the peace

Sirens shatter almost perfect late summer evenings

as storm troopers rush to arrest

potential problems

A bus load of Americans

get a glimpse of Palestine

as they gather their belongings

and walk to their destination

the Holocaust comes alive

in that small way of beginnings

as gathering places are chained

people detained

searched

catalogued

Journalists are herded

harassed

handcuffed

as they gather in a garden

hungry for change

A warrant was signed by a judge

certainly not Solomon

appointed

as keeper of the status quo

Are they voices in the wind

swallowed by the mainstream media

or portend of things to come

Rakhi celebrates a very special bond.

A commitment, deeper than blood, beyond

Kinship.

Shraavana’s moon will long remember our

Holy obligation to protect, defend her

As a sister.

Brihaspati instructed Sachi, save Indra from the cruel

Asura; Vritra was defeated, devtas's place restored in duel

Noble hearts and causes share this ancient fabric ritual:

Draupadi captured Krishna’s hearts affection,

Humaun sent Queen Karnawati armies for protection

And Gandhi’s mighty struggle honored Rakhi and not dread,

Noting solidarity and kinship with its holy golden thread.

Rakhi bonds and binds,

Allows divides be crossed;

Krishna, Indra, Gandhi, stories never lost.

Hindu, human, brother, sister, cousin, distant friend

In love renew the Rakhi that love will never end.

A Rakhi for Manna Valiathan

I can not picture chocolates

crossing continents

as our friendship has.

More

I imagine

a painting,

delicate

dancing

subtle

vibrant.

You,

me,

the universe in a brush stroke.

Our children golden chariots or

a star in the galaxy for each.

Trials and triumphs surrounded by wonder,

hope,

miracles and gilded, tiny passages

of poetry, sacred works,

words of encouragement subtle woven on the frame

and nestled comfortably within.

Hard words,

truth,

life,

death,

all painted on a flower.

As sweet and sweeter still

than blossoms fragrant in the moon light

My father is under home hospice care. Sometimes I wonder if his emphysema is like my lungs after surgery. HE thinks I pegged it, others do not...

When I imagine struggling,

straining,

gasping for a single breath:

panic

desperation

pain,

fear of dying now desire for death

as drowning in an airless ocean

makes release a welcome guest,

a peace full place,

a planted flag

upon the summit of this Everest.