Tuesday, July 29, 2014

things are not always as they seem

some days
I wish the roof wild
to be ripped from this house
plucked by twister … or azure magic 
leaving exposed the lathe bones & plaster of its construct 
sun streaming in to light upon the broken corners
wind dervishing with no philosophic placement
random bits thrown to the unexpected
inside out
outside in
woken to the thunder of being
each breath miraculous in its chaos
such is the nature of storms

Pin It

the secret of summer. . .

The secret of summer is to find your twelve ....
twelve at the feet of the possible, and at mercy of memory
to breathe in the heat
feed it to your soul as if it were the plumpest raspberry
time ...
well .... time lounges by a pool blue as Joni Mitchell
and as endless as
well ....
waiting ....
perfectly, saturated & succulent waiting ....
Pin It

Monday, July 28, 2014


I talk to you in meter
slow and measured
placing words upon some clock-work scale
3 beats to 7 . . feeling my way thru the labyrinth of weight
how do they feel upon my tongue ?
creamy, soft or tart, hard & jagged ?
are they too sweet, too used, to banal ?
are some too steeped in an ancient realm of weathered time, too faerie ?
some smell sophomoric & nervous, while there are others, hiding
erotic & juiced behind a curtain of dark-chocolate velvet
i talk to you through the spaces of my days,
through the turning of the seasons ;
with the spark found mostly in the deep grass of summer,
the electric pause of thunderstorms & the still-quiet-brilliance of snow
which pulls at the fabric of the missing
open & naked
naked ?
what does that feel like against the harsh armor of the expected ?
i am red-onion-layered
intent on stepping aside from story
forcing a pause for just a moment
there ....
upon a bridge made from bird-bones & blue saffron sky
somewhere near the peony nebula
dressed in shades of forest-gypsy silk with
feathers of pheasant & tall red boots
wait .... there
& listen ....
is that a westerly wind rustling the curly willow ?
fierce & determined
clouds building, darkening
rolling, boiling ....
bringing blessed thunder & rain
to shake me loose from moorings of grey
this self-preserved bridge ribbon-hung on pink crimson stars
a measured hesitation...
3 beats to 7
it IS too soft, too tart & sharp
too jagged & real
too heavy
words have no place here
welcome thunder - come to shake me loose
from my fragile-avogadro perch
thrusting me to the brink of
the edge ...
a fall
into the piercing light
of knowing
our wounded open
Pin It

rift . . .

to touch the bottom of the well
again ....
to get messy & bruised
to feel less than & taste acrid defeat
to hold the blossom that is days possibility
stroke the weariness of ignorance
and allow the amber fracture to vibrate
again ....
with the stored ache of a thousand years
to the breezed smell of a distant blue-salt-release
hands grasp the carbonate ego'd stone
cooling is required
trust & cooling ....
Pin It

Wednesday, July 23, 2014

90 degrees

firework me across the sky on this cusp of gemini
smelling of coppertone skin & petaled iris
taste me in your mouth; grass green laced with summer's strawberries
firework me home to Jupiter via Mercury's streets
i will write your swan song disguised as an epitaph disguised as a limerick
'there once was a boy from the river, whose eyes shone with maple-sugar timber'
light the thread that sparks the burn …
golden-crimson sizzling & snapping across the divide
light the thread
firework me
feel the thump-boom in the pit of your soul
thump-boom thump-boom
i will dwell in the sky forever
a raspberry fire-tail
maybe i will be an iridescent stone lying in a river bed at 12,457 ft.
… my wonderings will be of yellow pages ancient & bold,
orange cotton dresses and horses thundering across summer fields,
hands determined
hearts rich
thump-boom, thump-boom ….
light the thread

Pin It

Saturday, July 12, 2014

300 ft from the top

sometimes the trick is in cutting the wire
allowing the fall
feeling the bone crunch of rocks & recognition
hearts ripped from viscera & the soul's moored memories
patterns of moonlight on
blue snow, blue snow, blue snow
can we be more then where we've been?
can we trace the patterns of forgiveness upon our wounds?
sorrow becomes the morning's stillness
as we hold dear the fragments of our being
sometimes love is in cutting the wire ,,,,.
Pin It

Friday, July 11, 2014


jet trails of presence
rimmed & rhymed
each smooth movement amplified
by the hollowness of the missing
vibration vaporous & felt
captured in the fragility & textured blueprint
of cowslip spode
there, there
feel it?
how we trace the gap :
the felted folds

rain comes,
grounding & fragrant
adding wash & weight
a knelling of the holes
so defined in the wrinkles of things
the smell of oranges ….
Pin It