Monday, April 30, 2007


She stood there watching, intent,
for hours, or so it seemed,
on a high rise balcony,
sipping the golden nectar of a
fruit from this land.

The sun beat down
and a child’s skin glistened
brown - the lather slithering
down - under mugs full of water,
extracted from a tiny
plastic bucket by his mom.

Her father soon joined her
for the engrossing balcony view,
and innocent, questioning eyes.

“Where do they live Dad?
The bathing child and his mom?”
For there wasn’t a ‘home’ in sight.

He pointed to the patch
of filthy plastic blue
sheltering a four-post home,
and a few others scattered
in the distance.

He christened it “Tent City”.

The cows on the road
didn’t shock or surprise,
the stray dogs were friends,
and a walk to the beach -
just a time to meet Sana -
a Tent City friend
now clutching a Barbie prize.


Sunday, April 01, 2007


Written for Palm Sunday.


No victor’s entry this. And one must bide

one’s mount I suppose: it might have been worse.

At least the fellow’s uncomplaining, and a horse

would have been seen as pride.

The throngs gratify, though what understanding

they have must be left to conjecture or the ages:

do they know what this coming presages?

Six days to a crucifixion, palms notwithstanding.