Homeless

he's a punching bag,
a soul that others
throw cheap shots at.
in a land of great wealth,
he sits by the curb.
waits for new clothes.
smiles when he can.
I met him at Starbucks.
says he cut his hand
picking through garbage.
wears a hat with a hole in it.
swears he has a girlfriend
though she's mad at him today.

speaks of his daughter,
her blue eyes, Sunday dress.
holds an old faded photo.
says she's as kind as a kitten.
he hasn't grown tired of love
but knows he'll never find it.

for him life is oblique,
skewed in the city's underbelly,
the scaly streets,
the nerves of night,
but give him a coin and he thanks you.

at times old ghosts rise.
he lifts his fists.
get lost in his own hurricane.
then moans.
young tongues mock. 
adults judge.

he's lost his rightful human way.
what is the antidote?
some say a faltering brain cannot be repaired.
the sun dims. night returns silence, 
quiet hours for this old soldier.
he trudges to his outpost.
he'll catch sleep
while the world moves
further away from him.

Mountain Daffodils

like little yellow stilettos
that shoot up out of the earth’s
meadowed muck.
these blooming brigades,
their wild beauty
leans, teases, beckons a lonely call.
I sip my morning coffee. pack up
and go light under foot.

soon hikers will thrash a path
towards this golden garden.
have a solitary moment.
sniff the air.
even spy a circling hawk
with its towering loveliness.
but these yellow trumpets are the stars.
they are the lords of the land,
majestic flamboyant,
a pathway to the unbound big picture
within us. they clang their gong.
in their presence I take a break
from the brutality of daily life.
the measures of right and wrong.
I see my long lost dreams dance.
these shiny medallions sing
like flying feet.
a consequence of spring and summer broth,
nature's perfect rhymes
and fall’s barren breeze.