Namibia [for Colin]

The cradle of infant beginnings
the bed - scorching and inhospitable - in which
the human babe cries to life
the future tyrrant cooing, the future friend in
tantrum.
I'm going to fashion you a pen
from the fallen feather of our epic's stork
and you shall write and weep joy
on the heartbeat of our history,
with the billion stones of our scorching desert cradle,
between your toes.
Take me with you when you go, to write and weep joy in the desert,
we'll add our puny voices to the boom of our ancient echo,
we are your futures!,
who will follow us,
what mysteries, none know,
this wonder, the adventure, what greatness.

Author Me Lakesides

Go word by word and bring me back.

Put together your piece like

you'd assemble this beach,

pick a billion stones for the role,

one by one, and then hand fulls,

bring your billion words to the shoreline

right up to the water, wash the dirt

from the backs of soiled

words.

No Eden

                                                                                    for this garden
                                                            you've murmured into existence
                                                                     how should I proceed,
                                                                                        poetically?
I want to promise you the words
                 not yet growing,
                                                 to till soils still
                                           deadened by flooding man,