the river is my refuge
the guru is my flea
blades of tall grass growing fast
my choral reverie
the water from the mountains
flows gently towards the strait
though trash may come and trash may go
it does not hesitate
the black wing tips of egrets dip
to listen to the sound
and see if fries are swimming by
so dinner can be found
the hostess' kitchen nearly bare
Han solo on the docks
the only pizzazz that was round
was whiskey on the rocks
branches bent from pushing winds
no going against the tide
to be expelled into the river
is calmer there inside
the river lets debris drift shore-ward
and there the useless stays
until Samaritans come tidy up
and throw the trash away
i hear the wining voices mumble
on the road behind the bench
i choose to fuse with, face the river
transcendence in a cinch
12-21-15
