Friday, October 22, 2021

lojong slogan #2

 to flatten the crease 

refold the life that held you up 

you are more than all your parts 

but

your parts 

hold the magic key that grants you 

immortality 



waning gibbous

cooling moon

shuttered light-well to Oz 

captivated  

driving  walking standing 

poised upon a ledge that has become too comfortable 

what is it 

this change of season? 

is it autumn? 

ding dong the witch is dead autumn 

no 

it is more 

this otherworldly tincture of days 

this moonglow spell of night 

casting ancient dreams from yellow school buses & winged horses 

constellations shift shadows into suspended seconds 

lace underwear, football & fearlessness 

casting visions 

longing to be 10 .. ok ... maybe 15ish

lanky--full with secret words in my pockets

we make out in grass, on beds, on bikes, in rivers . .  because we can 

because we are 15ish

well, 

you can be sixteen with your tamed arrogance & mahogany bones 

the milky way & every nasturtium belong to us 

I know what you look like in mornings 

and can smell you on my skin

innocence seeds trust long fired in the bowels of mordor & mirth 

bodies lithe & limber twined naked--easy 

our tongues play cribbage against lips curious 

and sure 

sure of us 

paused on backs flat upon earth sumac-red-deep 

and 

soft 


suddenly

electric panes of glass slide 

revealing 

home 

in 

the moon


Thursday, September 30, 2021

cooling gray morning

        consumed by sky or passion's glass 

piercing -- it splits the day into tenured possibilities 

diamonds or dust 

stillness stroked to passive perch 

arched electric tremors seeking the solace of ash 

ancient the wind that comes to heal the wound 

slight the hand that stills the sorrow 


cloud stations forecast

fisher of riverfields
soft the grasp
play on thunderstorm 
exquiste cooling 
pond blossoms 
phoenix'd   
to love's fountain conspiracy 
of
quakes 
and snow 
and 
grassland wagontrains 
rain falling 
stealing birdsong and cowboys
moonwater rustles
the sun's 
goodnight 





Thursday, September 23, 2021

left

 more often it comes like light

falling upon the floor with lines straight/angled tight 

no poetry tonight 

he breathes deep sleeping curled in green & dust & day 

as i try to untie the remaining knots 

shadows swallow the sun at a quarter to five wind stills 

he turns towards into the night with promises of respite 

while knots become nighthawks soaring to an unchartered home 

Friday, September 10, 2021

west on highway 6









west on highway 6
along
fresh-mown road ditches where wild 
goldenrod fields pierce cardamon daydreams
to
the
thrum-thrum of tires on crappy pavement baked in midwestern sun at 91 degrees

these dog days of summer will likely head-butt
into a near morning's early frost
silvering threads of conversation & memories
buried six inches & 12 months deep in soil
the color
of
coffee grounds 
& honeyed cigar smoke 

thrum-thrum

sunflower towers catch dragonflies & remorse

petaled mile-markers randomly blown from Orion's belt

what design do they illuminate
what trail of illusion
where does regret lie 

thrum-thrum

it smells
of
green

this ageless september day 

thrum-thrum


gaoth

these days when wind becomes blood
coursing
bursting
awaiting the indigo bloom
blossom cherry'd
and
petaled thru September

of welter and frost's threat

Sun turns fear to vastness blue
dimmed not by darkness
or
love's feathered weight
all fire
brimming

becoming
Spring