four thirty-nine

what is it to be beloved?
pocketed at ten 'til four on an afternoon in late august
pocketed
against a small stone picked up
from sidewalk's sunlit cracks
outside it smells of fresh mown grass
and a promised rain
outside

what is it to be beloved?
held as a bluejay feather found
and lost and found again
held so as to not bend the vane
hollow shaft the color of aged bones in a dream

what is it to be beloved?
rolled out onto the pine table as clay to be molded
smoothed and pressed by a vision only seen by
one
unveiled bit by love-resilient bit
until form becomes space becomes
sun
stone
crack
rain
feather found dream
by one
unveiled
love
--beloved--

beholden ~ ~ ~

 beholden ~ 

how do we get from there 

to here 

here to there 

afar from womb & wonder 

tightly bound gravity held 

to the 

percussive lightening 

wicked wildling 

riotously arriving

wearing chaos & wisdom 

in an old comfy black tee 

woven from ancient-star-stories 

then 

tossing it aside for raw giggly-ridiculous-laughter 

piercing 

cutting

cuttting

cutting

thru the shit

hold tight & release 

hold tight & release 

hold tight & release 

leaving space

only …space .. and the awareness

of space 

you taught well oh coyote wizard … oh being of light! 

being of joy! 

stretch

i can't separate enough

peel

myself away from the wonder or the tumult 

long 

     enough to write a word down 

maybe i should try to write a word up 

with the tiny white hairs of my dog 

or the blood of a thousand sorrows that feels so laced within this day . . . 

all here 

all knowing 

maybe i can just become a cloud full of particles & 

change & sunlight . . ..

maybe then 

just then i can become hollow enough 

full enough to listen to the wind
finding contentment in the bind 

contrast abides

 pressed between this alice blue sky of morning 

here within the walls of home & things 

with every step i circle the drain 

of dying & death 

a misplaced vowel 

a broken heart 

a ripped dish towel 

foretells of a sorrow branched in ash 

replete with the softest goodbyes while flooded waters rise throat-high  

morphing to a great plains hurricane 

thundering tunneling closer to that alice-blue sky than 

any thoughts on death & dying 

pause here 

and wonder at the light 

vokzal

What is it that attracts?
that pulling together of fragments:
moths to flame
hands to hearts
ink to page 
polarized metal
butter to knives 
skin to skin
eyes to the garden of possibility 
tetthered 
to 
aubergine rye-whiskey dreams
the torn edges of leather coats
and
childhood gardens
a myriad of particles collide in recogniton 
something shared 
something desired 
gestures seem innocous
thrown down as carmine on leaves 
and borealis wounds 
a minutiae of fluttered moments hanging breathless
the plethora of pleasure gleamed in the capture 
intellect to intention 
light to shadow
close to open 
wings to weather 

magnectic north 
lies in the curve 
of you 

of six-thirty in the morning

in the morning when birds are remembering their feathers 

i walk with my wee scruffy dog 

stumbling over worms & branches & my own remembering 

forgetting to look up where clouds shift & separate & open 

filling my lungs with promise & forgiveness 

and by the time i return home i have become my dog 

the feathers 

the clouds 

open & remembering 

contemplation #7/15/25

i can't separate enough

peel

myself 

away from the wonder or the tumult 

long 

     enough 

to write a word down 

maybe i should try to write a word up 

with the tiny white hairs of my dog 

or the blood of a thousand sorrows that feels so laced within this day . . . 

all here 

all knowing 

maybe i can just become a cloud full of vapor & crystals 

& 

change 

& sunlight . . ..

maybe then 

just then i can become hollow enough 

full enough to listen to the wind 

and rain a word down