Goodbye to Orion

Goodbye to Orion of the winter sky

following his path through the seasons,

and hello to the springtime stars returning,

Virgo, Leo, Boöte, and the Great Bear.

 

Sirius’ bright dog star, too, faithfully

following Orion westward, heralding warmer

weather and the spring triangle from the east,

Arcturus of Boötes’ herdsman, an old red giant;

Regulus of the lion’s heart; and the Virgin’s

Spica, lone bluish-white star, her ear of grain

signifying fertility and the spring-time harvest,

this virgin goddess of justice, Dikê, Zeus’ daughter,

enemy of falsehood, protectress of justice wisely

administered, by her own ideals leaving behind earth

and flying to the heavens, running away, escaping.

 

Leo, too, in Regulus’ realm, regal, a prince, a little

king and crouching lion, his mighty roar heard

to the heavens, his fur impenetrable, defeat impossible,

but by Hercules, placed here in the spring-time sky

as guardian, reminding us of the cosmos’ wonder and beauty,

this King of the beasts, conquered, honored.

 

The Spring triangle completed by the Herdsman’s

Arcturus, point of Boötes’ kite, Arcas, Zeus’ ill-born son,

secreted away, king raised and betrayed, placed

in the heaven’s protection, he and his mother,

Zeus’ lover, the Nymph Callisto, swearing chastity,

a young maiden falling in love, seduced, taken to bed,

and she now the Great Bear, Ursa Major, cast there,

sheltered, both son and mother, safe from Hera, violently

jealous and seeking revenge, they unharmed in the spring

nights’ darkness, eternally paired, roaming forever;

 

in spring, now wandering the night sky above, safely watching us,

Virgo, Leo, Boöte, and the Great Bear, while below, the end

of winter and new life blossoming, growth and renewal.

Truth

Words, like stars punctuated in the night’s darkness,

     speaking truth, shine far brighter than the falseness

          shouted into the shadows cast by the fading light of day,

               hiding deceit and lies, false gods and promises.

Consider Your Hand

Consider, if you will, your hand, your own hand,

not any hand, not the image of a hand, but your own hand,

creased and cracked, its life lines spread across your palm,

its fingerprints uniquely yours, uniquely you; consider those

long slender fingers, or the short stubby ones, like mine,

that kept me from mastering the piano, or perhaps, hands

far from those of a model, or maybe too small to grasp a ball

and throw it, no 60-yard pass for the winning touchdown,

nor the long throw back to home, a game-saving out from deep

left field, unless, that is your hand. Consider what you can do,

have done, with that hand, clutched a pen and scribbled

across the page, words flowing out, in rhyme and meter, held

a brush or chisel to draw out art from a medium, reconstructing

something old, or crafting from scratch something new;

consider what your hand has touched, the course skin

of a stone or the smooth surface of polished marble, the sharp

edge of a knife, or the softness of a puppy’s fur, the heat

of a roaring fire warming cold fingers held out to it and the

cold of ice and snow brushed away from a darkened window.

Consider your hand, fingers intertwined, laced with the fingers

of your other hand in prayer, palm to palm, a friendly, firm hand-

shake of a brother, or the hand of another needing nothing more

than the touch of another person, softly placed, to ease their pain,

and perhaps, your own, that shared touch of love; consider your hand,

now entwined in someone else’s, held tight, warm, walking

the packed sand of the ocean’s shore on a star filled night, the moon

bright overhead, and the delicate brush of the waves illumined,

your hand shared with another, touching hearts, one spirit joining. 

The Foxes

The little ones will be born soon, if not yet,

and they’ll test the parameters of their den

and the new world around them, venturing out

in the morning sun or the cool chill of night;

some might not return, and we’ll grieve their loss,

one less fox to delight us crossing the yard:

nature’s way in this wild space we share. 

Patriots

In the first grade, they taught us to pledge our allegiance

to the flag, our little hands over our hearts, because it was

our country, and they called us Patriots; the next week

we single-filed into the school hallway and knelt on the floor,

curling ourselves into little human balls with our hands interlaced

over our heads because of the bad people who wanted to hurt us;

but we were Patriots, one and all, and the flag would always protect us,

as they told us it would, as we learned to believe, trusting them.

 

But today the Patriots are amassing weapons of warfare, a war against

each other, against the flag, against the ones who would protect us,

and I wonder aloud, crying out, my hands pleading, “if I kneel down

on the floor and curl myself into a ball, who will protect me now?”

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Possible 3^rd verse I played with but decided to omit.

Question: Should I have kept it there?

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And I listened for an answer, but there were none calling back,

only the sound of the wind blowing and the birds flying overhead,

offering hope in the songs they carried.