I Miss My Wife Rain needles the roof Like a dancing drill And I miss my wife Not so much from absence Of her body beaide me-- Limbs and curves and fronds And amplitudes For ravishing-- As from the wish That we could be together As a single cell or rock or animal Is together-- That we could be together As a star Is together.

Lilies represent life Like the bass-lines Of "Take Me To The River" And "Going To See You Again" Flower with bumps of percussion And darting tongues. Lilies and bass-lines and ... Evoke so many elements In your senses at once That you must surrender To belief in their being born Of a Creator Many know as God. "That's right," you say. "That;s right," you say.

Wedding beside a Steamboat House The chimney is askew. The banana plant is brown. Bricks are stacked and strewn. Spouts arc across a pool. Roots bind to roots beneath decay, And childen chirrup next to swings By a Pilot House in New Orleans' Lower 9th Ward. The earnest vows-- The choke in Evan's throat, Nina likewise intent As she listens and speaks, Sure as an arc-- The courage of their carrying through-- Inspire smiles into champagne. Now has taken a while to come. Because--because--because ... All artists are complex And all seek a love to hold them. Further, some say Music and dancing make make for perfect senses. The player weaves with his wand's dreams, The dancer goes where her hips know, As the Iguanas sing en Espanol, The Pines overhead like woodblocks From Kyoto.

The Dancer under Wraps Two pair of shoes In her kitchen Are made of wood, Shoes with simple lasts and brilliant straps Like rubies, diamonds or tiara, Fittings for a ballerina, The dancer under wraps. Her blood father Was a Moise-hearted aviator. Who flew from Haiti to Germany In the 1930s. The father who adopted her Was Haiti's Ambassador To Mexico and Great Britain Before he fled the Papa Doctor Duvalier's regime. What a fountain is her laughter! How it rumbles and quakes and peals. What a marvel her compassion! Almost she cries With both laughter and compassion. How quickly she can move, Fast as a pulling guard Or a Gauguin brushstroke, Erect as a crane's steps Flying across water. A child so bold as to declare At age three: "My mother Made me this dress and I love it!" A child taken places, hearing voices Of Tontin Macoute raised with threats and guns Outside darkened windows, A child sheltered across continents Without a choice in the matter. Someone who came to ask Why and how the Church is so rich. If her skin was a lake, If her voice was a mother's whispering or a flute ("Kwame'! Oh, Kwame'! …"), if her arms Were the smoothest cocoa and bread-fruit, If her eyes were themselves pools of dancing darkness, She would still be as the sunrise By your pillow.

Sydney Has a Plenty to Show Sydney has a plenty to show Her eyes warmly sparkle. Her walk slinks and wobbles. She got early warning. She's not so short. This girl gussies up-- Dresses fine on the cheap-- Flaunts like an old star-- Devours junk with relish-- Like she mocks stiff forms. Sydney had to be tough. Her family went through changes. "We were treated Like poor White trash," She says still. "It was always them or us." Her mother was a beautiful addict, Her family was "a castle", And so Sydney's head turns down, Her lip hunches and her body squares, Ready to fight for pride against shame. Without that past, Though, Mother telling how The poor are not to blame, Sydney might not flinch so At animals' pain, exclaim in accents With her friends, bring flowers into homes, Wear colors like Matisse's, Kick bare feet when she laughs, Hug and rock you like a river.

What Is There in the Airport Sings (inspired by Mohammad Iqbal, written for Shafqat Ali Khan) What is there in the Airport sings? What is there here among Glass, steel, orders, and shiny things? Where is Ardor? Where Falcon? Dew? Where are voices of Poetry? Where is the one I love in Terminals A, B, C, D? What is there here--Zurich, Frankfort, Heathrow, Gatwick--among Glass, steel, commands and shiny things? I see her face among the hurrying strangers. Her eyes rise and leave me in these strangers. O, Iqbal, we've been made as blank as we are fast. You called us to the Great's conquests-- Mahals, Canals, Mathematics, Music. You called us to Jalal, Rumi, Hafiz, ... Celebrants of many-flavored Wines and openings into the heart. You called us to be restless as the River Which nurtures Tulips, Roses--Kashmir--Dust. You called us to know Love's All-absorbing Flame and embrace. What is there in the Airport sings? What is there here among Glass, steel, orders, and shiny things? O, Iqbal, what I have from you Are worlds that flow and flower-- See the swan of silver Flying from its showcase into a dragon's-breath rainbow-- Among these things.

It Must Be Love (Word Passed Down through Forbidden Radio) for Chuck Kinder and John Sinclair on their birthdays The voices beside your pillow, Friends past midnight, Wailing from the River, blowing through the Gaps, Whistling "Whoo--whoo--Hoo-hoo" for the Gras, Bring tales and tones so pure and sexual They lift you like a knife. Their guitars and drums like Indians, Slaves and Gospels freed, Raise heroes from the outlaw, Racing in the streets, All they say truer than what's on Your parents' new black-and-white TV. The Hill!--the Hill!-- shines beyond Highways' humming fins The Hill!--the Hill!-- gives you Muddy Waters and Hazel Dickens The Hill!--the Hill!-- is gained by going far out past Main Street The Hill!--the Hill!-- asks you to dance like one who can't be seen Ree-bel! Re-be-ba-be-bah-ah-bop-ee--ah ... Re-bop-'n'run-through-bell! What is this dreamt-for America but promises That those left out May rise according to their worth? What is it but best minds and hearts In red jackets ripped apart? What Wars and wars haunt Desks Of Insurance agents From George Pickett to the West Virginia John Wayne? What results might be outright When fields are level, when the long brown Path is open, When Old Dean Moriarty's Wobbly Choices are abundant? What more might happen to Motor Cities, Iron Cities, And High Lonesome Country After Bebop, Doowop, and John Coltrane chords-- Yea-ay-ah!--chords from notes!-- More join Highland melodies? What more might you bring with your hungry ears, The wound and bow from pillows' pain? John reached out to make Rock free as jazz. John reached out to enrich White with Black. John reached out to smoke and drink and fuck Upside-down, under the bed, out in the Lake, Or any other way or place he liked. John risked his life for all he felt gave some light. Chuck punched his way out of West Virginia parking-lots. Chuck claimed seven Armed Robberies when age seventeen. Chuck dove into Elizabethans, Matthew Arnold, The Golden Bough, and McCluhan with the same drive. Chuck threw up the past to ride whatever bus was out there. Chuck brought friends West to share in edges' glow. Decades pass. Partners split And losses wrench. Knives of Indians and Blacks show up in the dark. Water Follies lap against corpses found beside the Ocean. A Jimmy Carter, a Ronald Reagan, a Bush and a Clinton Are U. S. President. John and Chuck smoke and drink, Teach, create, promote and inspire More who listen and talk around kitchen tables. They keep pumping up forbidden radio. They can be ignored but not stopped. Their beards thin to catch light. What is the word abideth Night? What is the sound of Spirits bright? What holds the hand that grips your hand On what might have been your death-bed? What moves the horns of devotees Who play to be a force for good? What is the force made strangers by your bed Call you to be their friends, to know their worlds, To sing through the wounded throats of wild birds? What is the word, the sound, the force, you heard? It must be love. It must be love. It must be love. Like a knife. Like a bell. Like Gods' own bells. Raging love. Tender love. Unbending and undying love. Calling you to go out there, Do your thing and make it ring. Like endless light in giant night. The word, the sound, the force, you heard, So 'way back when and all your life, Under Ben Bulben and in Tunica, Eric Dolphy and Patsy Cline. The light you bring your road ahead, Like endless balm for wounded birds to get it right. It must be love. All will be well. It must be love. All will be well If we can love. It must be love. All will be well. It must be love.... Don Paul