Jungle '57 R.A.F. 911

Danger is silent in the Malay jungle,
blends with both sunlight and dark
stripes of moving shadows,
eyes of fire and predation, waiting.
Kiwi soldier never heard her
till she growled like a lover on his neck,
and pulled back half his scalp.
In searing, frightening pain,
deep in the Malay jungle
danger had him.

He flew a Sycamore lighter than he ever made love,
low over the dense canopy of emerald jungle.
Left family back at the pool when his call came,
now miles away, hovering to load a half-dead Kiwi,
pulled from deadly tiger's embrace to safety, perhaps,
but danger clings like tropic jungle mist, as he keeps her low
and steady....low.....low....eyes now on the fuel gauge.
Stone-faced he radioed base, sitting deeper in the saddle;
from landmark to landmark, watching the needle's fall.
She came down on fumes but damn she landed like a lady,
delivering Kiwi to help and a new life far away from danger
of light and shadow, from silence in the Malay jungle.

**************************************************

Left Hanging

They left Mayme-san hanging nearly
seventy years for a college diploma,
World War Two interrupting as it did
and all fates hanging.

From college to internment camp
she wore the mask of an enemy,
faced fear in her own country
but was left enough time to fall in love.

Mayme hung her dreams on the taste of his
imprisoned lips, his struggles and passions.
Both fought for a taste
of the American Dream.

He could not hang on to see the day
Mayme received her diploma, after nearly
seventy years and a life fully lived,
while left hanging for the respect due her.

Growing Passion

Dedicated to Jan Buday



She had a passion to begin,
details sometimes lost in the rush
to start again another flame.
So it is, when fire is young,
sparks fly and burn, too quickly done.

Now she knows her passion runs,
years grow into life poured
through emotion and her Art
into the details and justice,
nailing finishing touches.

Should You Need Someone

Should you need someone to tilt
at windmills by your side,
I would don rusty pitted armour,
your ribbons tied to my sleeve.

Should you need someone to untie
you from the railroad tracks,
I would do Dudley and save you Nell,
your flaxen hair in ribbons.

Should you need someone with stories
at night to tuck you in,
I would pull rocker to your bedside
and then spin in ribbon dreams.

Should you need someone to pull you
inside and hold love tight,
I would fly to you on beating wings,
arms wide ribbons to wrap you in.

Should you need someone....

Please Would You Build

I'd like you to build
a few new me's,
Lawd-amercy but with
just left brains please!
Make 'em with good
strong hands and back,
organisational skills to
keep me's on track.
This will take more than
hammer and nail,
find me's bionic parts
guaranteed not to fail,
re-cycled hearts that
know they were broken,
kewpie-doll lips with
no harsh words spoken.
Speed up the motors so
we's get more things done,
all of the made me's
with legs that can run.
Do not make them right brained
and able to dream,
or I'll lose me's on
every passing sunbeam!
Make me's with
all angles right.
Make me's that re-charge
meself every night.
Construct me's to be
indestructible,
there's no need to make
me's soft-touchable.
Please would you build
a few new me's--
and leave me to build
my dreams as I please.

Lines In Black & Red

Lines in black and red,
lines of nacre buttons moving
and the world was in them.
Tlingit Elders lined in dress across
hall of stone and straight timber
to their children's children's children.
Ravens are the thinkers, he says,
while Eagle Clan knows power,
and in line from the Ancients
coupled in balance of both
lines shape-shifting in dance.
Knowledge of land, spirit,
and All Our Relations
let's them hand it down the lines,
now a soaring eagle,
now the awkward head-bobbing
of a shoreline bird;
my hands felt the lines of beading
on the Medicine pouch I wear,
gift from a dying old grey wolf.
Grandmother grey and frail
straightened to the line,
cupped hands for the stars
to rain upon my head a blessing,
those hands that felt like papered
leaves veined with the journey itself.
Lines almost broken and ended,
languages left unspoken and yet,
still they come to give and dance
their lines in black and red.