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BAMBOO SHOOTS
Works of fiction and poetry by friends of Bamboo Ridge Press.

Bamboo BuckarooBAMBOO BUCKAROO

I am born. . . . If you really want to hear about it, the first thing you probably want to know is where I was born, and what my lousy childhood was like, and how my parents were occupied and all before they had me, and all that David Copperfield kind of crap, but I don't feel like going into it, if you want to know the truth.



Crossing Time

Published by BAMBOO BUCKAROO | Friday, May 31, 2019 10:04 PM


Walt Whitman was born on this date in 1819. Happy 200th Birthday, Walt. This isn't a contest entry.


Crossing Time

Each of us different, yet both of us the same
for we are a part of the whole, that same fabric
woven of history, each in stitch and seam of the other
and as you are read by us, so you are with us at that moment
and so we are with you, your words bridging time and space
we of the fifty, the hundred, and even more years hence
bonded in an instant by your voice, time collapsed to nothing
encompassing cognition, dear Camerado, of our shared humanity

I gaze at this water, watching now in gorgeous twilight
the same flood and ebb lapping at our Hawaiian Island shores
that you watched then, lapping Brooklyn and Manhattan Island
every water molecule of now and then commingled ever in a single eternal sea
caressing and embracing all the world encircled round together
and I see your face reflected here, as is mine
looking at you as good and present here with me
and together, although we may live near centuries apart
so I reach into the water and grasp your hand
pull you up and out and to my side
and then we walk, we two fused, both of us as one
arms around each other’s shoulders
on down the sand, pacing ourselves steady in strong shadow
singing together our envigored songs as the sun goes down



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