Moroccan Elements – Part 2

on hearing the voices of children late at night from our riad deep within the Medinah….



vortex                 last night

last night, just as I closed the door

to consciousness and stepped into

the cool blue anteroom of sleep, I heard

the voices of small children, rising, falling,

echoing through the house, familiar voices

passing just beyond my comprehension.

are these the voices of children



gone before, or of those still to come –

or are these the sounds of the lost

and harshly punished parts of myself

that are running now, their small

black and white shoes clattering

down the long wooden hallways of time,

rushing to see who’s come to the door,

to see who’s come to reclaim them

after such an unforgivably long time.





Why a Flower?

if Valentines day was a life and not a day….


because of its speechless improbability

this miracle of green emerging soft

so shyly from the damp dark


because it feeds equally on sun and rain

relishing both always reaching

to unite heaven and earth


beacause of is powers of alchemy

transmuting the rot of all passing things

into colors beyond imagination


because when the last color falls

and the stems begin to bend in mourning

the perfume will still fill the room


the sweetness of spring will still linger

on the gardeners’ fingers



© Old Bones, New Snow J.A. Fink

butter and bacon




 there’s always hope with enough

butter and bacon, all gluten free!

who knew, until the sellers told us,

of this ubiquitous poison in our bread?

and not just for an unlucky few, those

with identifiable disease, but for all

of us—go gluten free and you’ll feel

better—go free of anything fool

and you’ll feel better, if you’re so held

that the word “free” fairly applies. I

never knew my grandfather, dead

from a coronary before I was born. They say

he’d circle the table eating the scraps of fat

from all the plates. Today he’d be a paleo

hero- except for the being dead part, which is,

of course, where we are all headed.

How our conception of sin has diminished

in this age without boundaries- come love

let us pull down the shades and turn out

the lights. You can rub my back with butter

and I will lick the bacon from your lips.

We’ll make of ourselves a sandwich

and dream the dream of forbidden tastes

while we await the banquet of dawn.



© Old Bones, New Snow/J.A. Fink 2014

how can we not love her?

as the first clouds of the coming storm

ride up and over the mountains, catching

and casting the gold of the late day sun,

while in the valleys arrayed to the east

deep cloud-shadows slide up and over

and around, caressing the long curves

of her hills, then fall away, smoothly

like the silk of her dress might slide

from the skin of a lover’s shoulder.

how can we not love her?

this earth. how can we not want

to lay ourselves across the soft rise

of her hills, want to lose ourselves

in the gathering shadows of her valleys,

imbed ourselves in the moist warmth

of her hollows? how can we not surrender

to the cries of her thunder, to the white

heat of her lightning, how

can we not abandon ourselves completely

to the dark and passionate embrace

of her terrible gathering storms?

© Old Bones, New Snow/  J.A. Fink   2013