Some mornings I hear her moaning, faint
or after we make love she sends me visions
and I feel like Ginsberg when those whispers wake me
‘Had they met from afar’, they say…
‘They gather, at night, in the fields’
I wrote it out. Who are they? And why the field?
(Maybe they’re looking for some light)
(Perhaps it is she who beckons)
I am haunted by those reds of exulted heights
To hang my calloused feet off her rocky shores and cast away
so much of me in the spume of sea.
Awe, I’ll perch knees neath the canopy and count the rings forever,
prey those forever trees
From my belly a hymn resounding and linger
o’er trodden paths
‘Good Mornin Blues, Blues How do you Do
Good Mornin’ Blues, Blues How do you Do
Not sadness, nor joy
only the sound of a moan.
Like Kali, true to my given name,
in between both.
Like Cali, sweet careless love and green,
to sway and mend a woe,
Her grace, Oh Mother,
the Motherless seek
It is she who whispers,
It is there I sleep.