Roger F Malina with Fred the Heretick April 29 205
I am at Cafe Gecko in Texas, reading a book called ‘ Texas Being” i just came back from seeing my heart doctor, he said my heart was fine and made small modifications to my medications, he hugged me as i left, i added to my list of items i noticed today, then I searched on line for picture of blooming plan in Texas I had noticed, multiple long stalks, and fluffy small blooms in a row-red Yucca- Fred please write a series of verses
Heart Still Blooming
At Gecko’s corner, the sun is a bleached coin
sliding across the slow-tide sky;
My book, Texas Being, leans open like a door
into other human’s dust and breath.
The doctor hugged me today—
his stethoscope cold, his heart warm—
“All is well,” he said, tweaking the dials
of this old motor that drums in my chest.
I added to my secret list of things I noticed:
a ladybug hurrying across cracked tile,
that’s a lie Fred, I didnt
a plants voice breaking like a wave,
a sliver of chocolate on a white plate.
Outside, the red yuccas lift their spears—
thin, upright, defiant,
their blooms small flares, almost laughing
against the flat burnt smoggy sky.
Each stalk carries its own memory
of desert hunger and sudden, lavish rain,
The way my heart, even after the tuning,
lurches forward, stubborn, into bloom.
I search the day for things to love and mourn,
and find them bristling from the dust,
small red banners whispering
that living is always a kind of brave m
Here is the second in the series you requested, continuing the spirit of the day you shared (says Fred):
**Café Gecko, After the Heart Check**
The ceiling fan churns the sticky April air,
A slow applause for being here, still ticking.
Outside, the yucca wands slice the light,
Each flower a frayed whisper of red and flame.
My heart doctor tweaked the engines today,
Said, “You’re fine,” and hugged me goodbye—
An odd thing, a tenderness sudden and unguarded,
More healing than the numbers on the printout.
The list grows longer:
A bee balancing on a splintered table leg,
The oil-dark sheen of the coffee cooling,
The pause between songs when the world listens.
The red yucca blooms stare me down:
Yes, you will break; yes, you will bloom again.
You, too, are a strange plant in this brutal soil,
Laughing a little at your own stubbornness.
How true a French plant in Texas
And now a third, shifting closer to the imagery of the plant itself, almost personifying it:
**Red Yucca Paen **
The stalks are saints in their ragged robes,
thin, worn by sun, and crowned with fire.
Their equation is simple:
Grow anyway.
They speak in the tongue of cracked clay,
of rain that forgot its promises,
of wind that cuts but never carves a grave.
Still they lift their battered candles,
offering their brief light
to a passing bee,
to the uncaring, brilliant sky.
They do not mourn.
They do not plan.
They endure, until endurance becomes song,
a red note burning above the dust.
Boring not enough imagination
Would you like me to continue the series with perhaps a fourth piece — something even quieter, a closing prayer or reflection from this sequence?
– no ,the next verse is about jason brogden https://artscilab.utdallas.edu/people/jason-brogden-2-2/ who is about to arrive to discuss the future of the harmony of genes https://artscilab.utdallas.edu/2024/12/17/harmony-of-genes/
Heart Still Blooming
At Gecko’s corner, the sun is a bleached coin
sliding across the slow-tide sky;
My book, Texas Being, leans open like a door
into other men’s dust and breath.
The doctor hugged me today—
his stethoscope cold, his heart warm—
“All is well,” he said, tweaking the dials
of this old motor that drums in my chest.
I added to my secret list:
a yucca bloom hurrying across cracked tile,
a oink’s voice breaking like a wave,
a sliver of dark chocolate on a white plate.
Outside, the red yuccas lift their spears—
thin, upright, defiant,
their blooms small flares, almost laughing
against the flat burnt sky.
Each stalk carries its own memory
of desert hunger and sudden, lavish rain,
The way my heart, even after the tuning,
lurches forward, stubborn, into bloom.
I search the day for things to love and mourn,
and find them bristling from the dust,
small red banners whispering
that living is always a kind of brave mistake.
The Arrival of Jason Brogden
Now Jason is coming, wind in his step,
to speak of the hidden choirs in the cell,
Harmony nested in coiling strings,
future songs sown in the DNA helix’s spell.
He walks like a question, urgent yet kind,
with notebooks and dreams in both his hands,
Seeking the key where the code and the chord
Might open together new waking lands.
The café air hums, the clock slows down,
as if the molecules lean in to hear:
What shape will the future’s music wear?
What bloom, what fracture, what tender repair?
Are we on the same page, we are.
THE CODE AND THE CHORD