FRIENDS OF ISHMAEL: Another friend has lost contact. Please call and tell me where he is.
-from Ishmael, by Daniel Quinn

Springy days lent Time to Summer ways
and lending became all,
As ending seemed the answer deemed
worthy of Time's asking,
And my asking when turning to
emptied rooms wondering

Where is my Ishmael?

Spring of pure water, what then befalls
thirsting creatures who call,
Thirsting creatures whose habit found them
returning; when the ground
Reclaims its stock and store, the creatures
flock and roar, bellowing

Where is my Ishmael?

Water motion to stream to ocean
to places far distant
Leaves behind faces, those of a mind
to make of water wine
A sign of spitting out the fruit, who
find a dried flask, and ask

Where is my Ishmael?

Knowledge of blood from wine, wine from fruit
once deluded, now floods
A mindful of question, eluded
query left from childhood.
Seeking answers, wary of the known,
seeking, a child grown asks

Where is my Ishmael?
Teacher, Mentor, Friend, a pupil in
lament of your leaving
Spends words in grieving a departure
from answers without ends.
And seeking always lends a question,
one that never ceases

Where is my Ishmael?

-- Shannon Jones

for ECL