HOMECOMING                                      
By Lorenzo Lago

haven’t I dreamt
my arrival in our home
coming through the door
hugs and laughter
from the living room to the kitchen

it has been so long and too long
not share in your warmth
your love has never stopped pulling me back

I can feel everything
it rests comfortably
here in my chest

I miss all your smiles and understanding

keep the light on
I am only hours away
I am ready to gather all of you in my arms

nurture me again my family

the evening stars guide my path to your door
I am only moments
till my past and present are connected

 




The Bald Eagle
By Steve Quirt


They called him the Bald Eagle. I don't know why, he wasn’t bald,
    but he had some Eagleness about him.
        Or in him. Or, maybe around him.
I don't remember any wings, or feathers. Well, maybe, a few feathers.

   The kind that they use to make quill pens from:

       A real nice, sharp cut, and you're holding this cool pen.
       You just need some ink and you can
       pen Legendary and Deep Truth type words.

I first met the Bald Eagle in the summer of 1968.
   I don't recall any reason for being in the building.
      But there he was, plunking around on his piano.
         In truth, he looked a little out of place.
 
He was wearing a casual college collage
of black sweaters and hard black dress shoes.
Nobody I knew wore dress shoes.

He was sitting on some weird stool.
       Alone, but there was a small audience of
               collegiate persuasion and an element
                    of random choice worldview.

He sang a simple melody with a few piano rambles,

"Give me, Brass Tacks, on my, player piano
   Give me, Silk Strings, on my rusty guitar
Give me, New Words, to sing to the lonely
   Give me, a dollar and I'll play my guitar".

Or something like that.
     The lights were kind of low
           and I couldn't see the music, or hear the evening.
               But I recall the lost melody.

I met the Bald Eagle was a few years later, on a visit to an old friend.
The friend’s house was crowded with folks who were milling around.
         It was like going on a phantom cult ride at Disneyland,
                        when you are four years old.

I met the Bald Eagle in the hall – in passing – he was carrying a beater guitar
He was wrapped in wool scarves and sweaters,
       and can't remember what shoes he was wearing.
                Maybe none of us had feet to cover, I don't know

We stopped, and he plunked out a tune, that went like this,

         "Where I planted a carrot seed,
          A carrot it did grow
          When I planted a carrot seed
          That carrot seed did grow
          Why I planted a carrot seed
          I don't even know".

The tune was remarkable in that it included musical scales
       that I was not familiar with.
          The strings of his adopted guitar were singing to him,
                     but I think he had gone deaf by that time.

I thanked him for the song,
                  but he was already in a new room,
                             reading serial issues of cosmic comic strips.
 I remember the song though.

The last time I heard the Bald Eagle was few years later,
       at a disappearing
       gathering of Tribal Survivors
       of Tomales Bay.

I had heard the Bald Eagle had been playing music nearby.
     My friend Z
         told me that he heard the Bald Eagle sing many times,
                 and I believed him.

Z used to build big ships and pretend to sail away. But he never came back.

The first song that Bald Eagle played that night
          melted into the candle-lighted layers of the dance hall.

                   Then he sang the same song over,
                   I could begin to hear music.

Nobody was dancing yet,
      some folks were drinking Irish Coffees somewhere in North Beach.

                  Then he sang the shortest song ever,
                  and left the microphone.

                  He was all wrapped up
                  in rich, deep colors that had deep,
                  deep shadows, and he carried a basket.
                  His palms were up.

He was a tall man, and his feral hair made him taller.

                 I said, "nice songs", 
                 though I couldn't remember them,

He said something that sounded like water running on Inverness Ridge.
Then we shared some things, and I heard the song clearly,

                  though, just this moment, it escapes me.

        I put a gift in his basket, and he picked it up. 

                      All that I can remember is that 

                                         he held it in his fingers in an odd way.

About a year ago I was drawn to the Obituary Page from the Point Reyes Light.

                  I don't read the Obits regularly.
                  There was picture of a handsome happy man
                  gleaming out from the newspaper.

I read about the life and passing of the Bald Eagle. I read more about my friend, and thought that I ought mourn for him, so I did.

I watched dozens of Bald Eagles ride ocean waves high above Tomales Bay;
mostly over the East Shore. Sometimes they would dive and tumble, or just hover
on invisible air castles. Sometimes a melody that I can't quite make out hides
in their wings, something about brass tacks, carrots and a long ago visit,
from an old friend.

ROCK AND ROLL TONIGHT

By Lorenzo Lago

the suspense of your arrival
moments
     till you are deep within my arms
moments
     till we both surrender

the grand anticipation of seeing you
     come through the door
your body dancing as you walk inside my space

naked, you are radiant
like nothing I have ever seen
your whispers sing sinfully
your scent so sweet
like the scent of plumeria,
     gardenia
or a dark red rose
     a red that is almost black

my Venus
tonight we will awaken, soothe and share our senses
tonight we will caress, compliment and celebrate
tonight we ignite the spirit with dazzling romance

The coffee house of changing seats

By Steve Quirt

     Returning to the story–
Shiny glass-lined hall of companieros

 Immobile in the morning.

        Old Portagee cowboy silver hatband
        Old timer in the plastic hoodie eating of the gladness

        The ageless pony tail of the left-handed man
        The mighty single mother Her babies at her side.
                    
                        She holds the keys to heaven And lives in the mountains.

        The soldier and his faithful wife She left him at the door.
                   
                        His cup is full of sorrow His eyes they look so poor.

I serve and feed myself and am myself, myself.
I talk mostly of myself.

I am the lifetime mother talking to the lonely sister.

I am the rising artist with three jobs, chasing for the sun.
I am the school of friends swimming in conversation

         Wandering on without the thoughts left carelessly behind the curtain.

         The drops that will never make it to the ocean.

         The words that we lose in the music.

         The sun behind the cloud.

 I am the murmur of the moment the moving air that isn't.
      The sound of sliding Spanish footsteps in the background
           The lilting song of grace.
                The ring of the simple song of home.

Voices ripples through the ether.
     Coffee house mosaics
             Cast shadows on the walls
                    The blended forms of espresso dreams
                            tell stories not yet told.