Tuesday, May 28, 2013

just a night


no rumble of distant thunder. . .
or
lightening sparking to the west
no smell of rain in this galaxy scattering
no eleven twenty-five train either. . .
just the steady spiral dance of hours
taken & held
for a moment
part
of
you
moon 37% visible
part
of
everything
taken & held

Friday, May 24, 2013

prince dog


there exists my charmed familiar,
a bundle of scuffed & clever atoms
carved from some ancient tale
his short tail
is joy
present in wags & wiggles
this bundle draped in white wired fur
my familiar . . .
he has pulled me from the brink
untied my lashed wrists from train tracks, and unlocked my cage,
nudged from numb & from perilous cliffs
warmth against cool
lassie to timmy
silver to lone ranger
humor disguised as ...well. no.
he doesn't have the bones of subterfuge
he is what he is :
a twelve year old boy-prince, bewitched as a terrier
loving kettle corn, squirrels & sunshine
and me
my familiar ....
this ancient tale, this fairy curse
rests upon a dog with heart
and
mirth

Thursday, May 23, 2013

love at end-of-may ...













abrasive as the bark of an oak

sharp & grasping

yet we desire to feel that rip of palm

the catch . .

the cut

helpless . .

helpless as any ethereal thought

a day-dream perhaps lingering there in the grey breeze

produced by some umpteen bizillion currents of light

colliding into a puffball of nothingness

empty-set

stasis

a boiling rumpled cosmic stasis

movement proves heavy & fragile

the residue of of passionate possibility lingers

yet

history repeats and repeats and repeats and repeats

suddenly there is a dance, a shimmy

a flicker of hope-darting

tasting of blue grass

pointing west out of the chaos of this day -

this pocket of complacency

hold on ....

tight

Tuesday, May 14, 2013

crossing










I sit in saffron and hold a bowl of ancient tone
aged, cold & nodding to the hollow
deciding ...
warm currents lift me onto the backs of fine-boned fragility
golden-ribboned, heavy with mystery and smelling of pine
time lies in velvet slumbered hope
blue should have been my middle name
pausing . .
in cool rushing brilliance
pausing ....
patience is learned despite hour
high & dripping
amongst the willow & lilies
movement requires strength requires strip of ego
requires surrender requires presence
requires
plunging your hands into the earth and feeling the warmth of the day
in it's coolness
grasp &
hold it to your wound and breathe it in
press it in .... then
gently
rise up
and admit defeat at the hands of mediocrity & fear
yet a conquest of love flirts there along the seams
feels it's vibrato
speaking in the tongue of sparrows and stones
run then
run hard & swift
and
jump the west-bound-train & ride the tree-line to vulnerability & boulder creek
wear a cowboy bandana and sing to the quarter moon on a night clear & now
my middle name should have been blue . . .

Sunday, May 12, 2013

norma elaine




















i have been waiting
a long time ...
it should have been easy for her
to visit this world, to make an appearance
it should have been child's play
to
stir the pot
dim the lights
touch my back
change the damn temperature
awaken the cat ....
visited by the ethereal & transparent all her life ....
she was sure.
i remember the tales of wraiths & the ceiling dwellers
of her girlhood bedroom
beige, white & golds dancing
talking with her, teasing
with promises of strange dark travels ....
wisping in & out thru those luxurious stucco walls ....
wrapping themselves in the rough, bark embraces
of those huge linden trees pillared alongside the house.
she could pick up on the most subtle & delicious of ghostly signs ...
to her there was nothing benign
why can't i ?
what am i missing ?
is she there and i'm just too disconnected to tell ?
damaged, not gifted ?
have i missed the signs
or does she dwell closer 
behind eyes aquamarine 
barefoot with a fairy's reflection 


Saturday, May 11, 2013

fortunes tell

lay their hands in a row
palm down to the fire
and
I will tell all their secrets
love's lines furrowed deep & mired
to have loved
because of hands narrative line
hesitation of strength's tender-land
the catch
the release
of the
grasp
and
demand
love's journey fine

recogntion















colors shimmy
pulsing
waiting
re-arranging & quaking
with
expectation
tumbling with orchestral grace against the dark
held back by pensive indecision
waiting
never blending into champagne or alizarin crimson
unless you turn away
abstract waiting ,,,,,
held by hope
un-boxed
no sideshow line up here
shifting towards the azure mist ....
untamed by age
waiting inside for today

Friday, May 3, 2013

From The Plum Tree . . .











Follow this trail of wordcrumbs to an insightful & beautiful discussion on poetry . . .
be sure to visit the comments section
to discover fellow travelers on this path, and share in the discussion
peace out ,,,

Thursday, May 2, 2013

waking











we strive and dive …
each of us bubble-wrapped against the crash and fail
until we crash and fail with the bloom-boom of cherry blossoms and sound of bluejays
and trumpeter swans
flailing and folded we struggle against the impasse, against the bones of our ancestral veins
finding the pierced circumference of our blueprint
feathered and tethered to the call of stars and meadowlarks
breathing, reaching
gasping and grasping
we rise to test the mettle and mud of our flesh, to stand alone
yet
so so much a part
of
that which crashed us, that which broke and bent us ….
we are of air and earth
striving and diving
to the ache and call of
May 

Wednesday, May 1, 2013

may day









cardinals bicker in the rain-drenched corners of this morning
startled by the malingering of winter
it is a perfect day to sit,
gathering the seasons to ones soul
like misbehaving marbles
smooth against my sternum
transparent in my hands
wind gusts in, bringing presence
waking the heartsease . . .
as the birds quiet to preform some ancient rite to
spring
and
sun



head game

there were a lot of people to take in ...
to observe
and
make up stories about
my dad taught me how to do that - how to watch people - 
imagine
imagine their name, start there ....
what line of work are they in, why are they here, what do they love to do,
are they happy ?
tonight
it was
the doctor across the aisle
and
the woman in front of me with the black & white scarf like my mothers
the doctor was restless, running his hands thru his thick gray hair repeatedly
large hands, capable & skilled .... his legs never quit moving, thrumming, tapping to some interior melody that made it almost possible for him to listen
the woman was invited to attend, but hadn't a clue as to what this event was, 
she was lonely and unsure of her place in the world, 
but resolved & stubborn, she would have a good goddamn time if it killed her. 
she was a professional bowler.
his name was Theo, hers was Alice.
the two would meet later over Riesling & rice crackers, and find out they shared a love of Portuguese and New Orleans.
They were both named after poets

while listening to a poet

I thought I lost this one,
somewhere between 120 degrees and its cooling . . .
rising from the bath it slipped on the white tile
and
lost itself during the thunderstorm
drifting suddenly back
to sit in the palm of my hand
quivering
trembling with
the question :
is the poem made better by tucking it alongside a life
to wait
to whiskey age
simmering
tempering
is this how real poetry is made ?
honed
crafted
over time 
taken out and tinkered with
gnawed
and
mulled over
or
is it drop cut word-precise onto a folded napkin
found in your pocket
while sitting in a stone time-traveled church
listening to Ted Kooser speak
hours before the thunder comes ....