Friday, August 28, 2015

suddenly at three o'clock



sheets hung on a clothes line
tethered, tucked
drying
rippling
in this august breeze
grasp the corners
bring to your nose
inhale
this fresh-linen-sunshine
inhale
all that is held there
eyes close -- moment held  
perfection found
fresh summertime
ice tea on the back step
dog barks
sounds of children around the corner
breeze rising to the top of the hackberry tree
grass under feet bare
grasp the corners
one, two, three ....
three minutes of this moment

grasp the perfect corners


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peaches











three peaches sit upon the dining room table
waiting for something ....
four & twenty blackbirds?
roasted to freeze -- a winter's secret
a peach crisp?
i heard recently that a true poet does not use images, photographs, pictures... art
that seems vapid somehow
damn, i am not a poet
as if i could write without fingers
or
the sound of this south-east breeze
to lay down words bereft of what it was that lead me here
here here here
i think i'll settle on the crisp
the birds won't settle down
no
three peaches sit upon the dining room table
tenderness
waits
      for
          something ....
for a landing
a invitation
a room with a view of our wabi-sabi
oven warming to 350
clouds obscure the sun, as does oregon's smoke
can you smell them from there?
the peaches, not the smoke from fires burn
sweetness rising
to
blue jay's summer passing
ripe naps with 100 year old quilts wrapping
time & traffic pressing in from windows dusty with choice
three peaches sit upon the dining room table
and
i still feel the same




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Tuesday, August 18, 2015

defining time with color in August . .




I was made to paint this porch

shades of gray & turquoise
melt in the summer heat
trimming in 
beadboard to panes
sweat
and
breath
and
brush stroke
the rhythm moves to the sound of sunshine
as blood & decision pump
in my heart

under skin
hot 

August hot 

sweat at the back of my neck feels like
time turning back
stilling the days
drenched in lucky 

I was made to paint this porch
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Thursday, August 13, 2015

after the perseids on the plains













eastern sun upon the curly willow
green to green
as blue jay song lines the rising
a cool breeze
wakens trembling soothes the summer haze
a marked stillness bridges
from here to there from there to here
time
wakens trembles soothes
shimmers in the green to green of day

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Monday, August 10, 2015

a perseid-august-falling











at a young age, I knew that scars were
best
kept
on the outside  . . rather than on the inside
it felt peaceful & ordained somehow
to bare a badge of injury - pain
to bruise
to bleed
to ultimately form thickened stretched skin
pale as a badge
webbed & tatter-woven
inside scars suffocated - binding tight to the hollow spaces
ringing with infinite sharpness
scar me up & lay me down
ink the line morel-black
resplendent
to elude the phantomn pursuit
THEN, we find
love ....
and the teeter-totter balancing act begins
love is discovered under bridges
-  the balm to our scars
ending the requirement to bleed . . .
shining during the passage
Love :
the unbridled joy-love heard in a meadowlarks song,
the love of a grandmothers hand upon your back coupled by the smell of oatmeal
as captain kangaroo ping-pongs, the smell of summer coming from your mothers skin, the presence of a father sitting for hours at the foot of your bed watching as you slowly breathe yourself to sleep under that quiet vigilance, the soft ginger prickle of a baby's just-hatched hair beneath your lips, the easy comfort of a friend & the companionable love of men , ,
yes, men. where laughter, glory and the sky become tamed, and the rockem-sockem ghost-love of a man with sparkling walnut eyes that asks a willing surrender, a tacit understanding and to trust it's intimate quantum-rising.
the mark it leaves, the pain endured, the story told
scars ride shot-gun on the outlaw love-trail
coloring us in aqua-forgiveness under a perseid night that lights the path home
Fehu
Love is the scar-divine.
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Sturgeon Moon



storms of earth
and
blue-heron seekers
what fractal fragility lies under
this sultry haze of August nights
here on the prairie grass
where .......
softness .......
drips ........
from thunder
and
the dust of bees
dreams rise from
fire
ice
and
the dance of the moonshine warriors, peacemakers
and
beekeepers
we paint ourselves naked
and
frolic with the monkey-wrenching tight-rope walkers
shifting into love activists
thick & plush in woolen kilts
mighty our rose tongues
and sharp the bite
with softness
secretly tucked
between the blood folds
and
below freckled skin creeped with sailing ships
and ink trails
replete with sorrow
sorrow .....
buoyant and lucky
the cursed ones ....
squeeze that misshapen fractal along the palm-heart-line
and tender it's story
with a circle of stones
and
wild birds
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Sunday, August 9, 2015

Saṃsāra




















coyote song and air stream trailers
hands held tight to the august sky
gray fog dawn rolls in on the last boom of thunder
as the sliced pie of want circles the moon by & by

tall tales and arms wide open
wells of laced sorrow sit in the darkness of your eyes
listening to mary gauthier & a single blue jay calling
consequence & redemption pierce surrendered sighs

no need to peel the bark from the maple
no need to choose left or right
no need to kneel at the alter
lovers always know the price

burn of sun and midsummer's hazy promise
seeking shelter from contrast's gamma rays
the path lies between the sage gap and the violet thyme of turning
set down your whiskey softness and turn the page

there is no balm, no fix to story
no dissolve to the break of morning's alice blue
listen with a painted-jasper heart stone solid
the point of the tale is to keep wandering through

no need to peel the bark from the maple
no need to choose the stay or the go
no need to kneel at the alter of this moment
love becomes the cost of morning's afterglow







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