MORNING CROWS

Morning Crows

Black beaked, black feathered, black eyed crows

Cawed their morning songs

With their blazing black beaks.

While Dawn pierced his pink and orange fingers

Through the morning greyness

My cold goose bumpy legs

Peddled my bike to the pool.

The frigid morning air assaulted my nostrils

Forcing warn gooey fluid

To ooze out of my nose.

Black beaked, black feathered, black eyed crows

Laughed, ”caw, caw,”

Poking fun of the purple swim bag

On my yellow jacketed back.

“No food falls out of that bag,”

They cawed and laughed.
“Silly man rolls down the street

Without singing his song.

That is so wrong

This early in the morning.”

The morning crows followed me

All the way to the university.

They flew over me and discussed my form

While I swam, floated and flew

Through the water.

“He’s pretty in the water

With his golden brown featherless skin

And featherless wings.”

Black beaked, black feathered, black eyed crows cawed.

“Hey you! Down there!

Sing your song to the water spirit.
Sing it loud, so we can hear.

Sing of your flight through the water

Sing of your rolling down the road

Bless us with your song

Before the morning is long gone.

I Hope I Don't Care

When my body is dead,

I hope I don't care.

They, whoever they may be,

Can do with my body
As they please

To please themselves

Because

I hope I don't care.

I won't be there
Anyway,

To weep, or cry,

To laugh, or sigh.

My time in this time

Will be complete.

And I can move on

To whatever is next.

I hope it won't be to rest.

Rest in peace?

Not that. Please, please.

I will fly into the light

To meet our son,

And those I still hold dear

In my heart of hearts.

I will embrace each one

Especially our son

Who I will hug for a

Delightful segment of eternity.

Meanwhile, here on Earth

My body will be dead,

Empty of my spirit.

So, what they do with it

I hope I don't care.

Some people worry about what will happen to their bodies after their bodies are dead and if anyone will miss them enough to celebrate their life.
After my body is dead, I won't have any control over how or if people celebrate my life. Even if I ask for a memorial service and to have my dead body cremated, whoever is left with the responsibility to dispose of my body could do anything they want.
They could have my body cremated and then have my ashes mixed in bubbles and blow me away.
Or mixed in paint to create a piece of art.
They could feed my body to the fish in the ocean.
Or bury it in a grave where no one will come to play and laugh. That would be sad.
When my body is dead, I won't have any control. And I hope I don't care.

I Am Grateful For My Spirals

I am grateful for my spirals.

Not when I'm plunging,

Whirling, sliding down, mind you.

I'm grateful for having resurfaced.

And that new breath,

That breaking through the heavy fabric

Of me alone,

Makes me appreciate even the tiniest,

Silliest, and simplest of Everything:

The smoothness of the skin on my eyelids.

The coolness of the bottle of beer

On the spirals of my fingers,

The dust particles that reveal themselves

Dancing in the dawn’s hazy light.

The birds singing for their breakfast

Outside our window.

The aroma of fresh coffee

That spirals up into my nostrils.

The magic that spirals

From my lover’s hand into mine,

And from mine intro hers.

The blue my spouse’s eyes

That often are the color

Of spiraling laughter.