Tyson West
Sandhogs (A Birthday Meditation)
I have collected as many sun circles as trombones slide
in the Big Parade—sadly more than mother
who gifted me
this birthday—hers too—dripped in our darkling wet season of Samhain.
Now, I celebrate we two and all bodies who burrowed once their bedsheets
to elongate our humongous human tunnel from some dusty,
caravaning big cat plagued savannah through lice ridden stale blanket voyages
past bronze and iron age Old Testament sword slash sepsis
through Middle East wadis to evolve comfort in conifer
and mushroom riddled forests and beaches where sand bleeds amber.
Our flesh flows from old countries and their cacophony of voices peep
across the veil to remind us sin, sorrow and bright song abide not alone.
May the tumble of our descendants embrace this passion to advance
the diamond drill tip whose purpose perhaps
like music and art be nothing more than its being in beauty
before the heavy lidded eyes of god.
Bio
Tyson West has published speculative fiction and poetry in free verse, form verse and haiku distilled from his mystical relationship with noxious weeds and magpies in Eastern Washington. He has no plans to quit his day job in real estate.