Thursday, September 28, 2017

found objects may appear closer

polish the stone
glean the white
a thousand years
to moonlight
wrapped in weather
gravity pressed
edges round
sharpened protest
ether little evermore
jaggedly done
rock, paper, scissors
journey to the sun

Wednesday, September 27, 2017

coffre au trésor

Copper hammered & echoed,
this box lies locked & brambled
Thicket-hidden below the vintage children's leather saddle,
beneath Christmas trees & dart boards, fog machines, custard cups & paintings.
Dragon-locked with 3 riddles & needing the one o'clock sun
of a perfect fall day to shine properly perfect upon its crystal pulsing keyhole
It rests crumbled--forgotten there ...  hidden.
Is it the best part of me?
Kept tightly insulated from contact, from the burn, from the breathe of days
Kept tight.

I can never fully show-up.

Never fully engage all parts, all systems go
Never have

This comes as quite a shock actually
Too much at risk
too much vulnerability

No one wants it all, no one wants the dark & the light

The burn is too fierce, the light too blinding, the love fractured yet complete

Only you ever acknowledged that petaled part;
the shine, the shadow. . .
Only you ever held it in your hands
copper hammered & echoed, locked & brambled
baby-powder-dusted sweet

And so it lies apart . . . but with.

Friday, September 22, 2017

hymn #7

are there more like us?
thinly held between the cracks of light and refute
balanced as the wings of some giant flailing bird
hell bent upon southern winds in autumn
are there more like us?
crimson thread held between philtruim and coffee
bound for Oz
side trip to Costco proves to be fatal
only so
we wait for bluebirds to sing us to sleep amoungst the ash
of our sorrow

Wednesday, September 20, 2017

frame of reference

the light of this day shimmers on the gray
trembled cadence
shadows dart from a blue jay's feathers
hackberry's branches quiver
brushed by
western breeze--slight--varied
sun breaking upon pavement
tethered warm to earth's intention
quiet settles the dust of dawn
distant the drum & thrum of chaos
quiet here
being swallowed by the azure verdant echo
of hummingbirds

Algorithm for Minimizing the Impact of Thin Clouds at Mile Marker 397

west . . .
as the sun cotton-candies the day
tequila pink highway thump thum thump thum thump thums
palomino ghost cuts over prairie grasses & milo
dust's syruped sting tastes of soil & sage
time rolls to reo-red-wagon
opens to the outflow
tendrils of possibility drift to earth
in direct ratio to the wanting of vermillion
the density of uncertainty
thump thum
thump thum
run palomino
run west to the sun

Tuesday, September 19, 2017

5 o'clock thicket

is lonely here
windows of sunlight feed me
waiting on this cold pink-marbled bench for a sign
and even though you can't see it--it is snowing
it always snows here
it can rain
     but that happens most often in the morning
snowing softly in this captured glen of birch & pine
a slow
dropping sparkle of designed brilliance
a meadowlark sings
maybe a meadowlark is always singing
my feet grow restless as they tap & play in the foliage
should I play a penny-whistle while I wait
or sketch the inside of your heart?
definitely should take up smoking,
or knitting,
or model airplane building
I could build a plane & fly away to the last place where I picked up your scent
rich cherry-earth,
honeyed & mine
that is cutting too close.
too close to the burn, the pinch, the punch that is the want of you
it resides in a scarlet-arched line from the base of my throat, to my groin
and travels out in a spiraling crescent moon
to blossom-explode upon
this night marrying to star-shine & nightingales
that is cutting to close
just wait
in September's snow 

Monday, September 11, 2017

Of Septembers ...

writing sustains
fills the hollows when the river slows
words & water
devotion weaved in destruction's whispers



bind heart to land and moon



words pour from unfamiliar fingers
from hands once young
over stone and shore
once young

we rise
we rise
in liquid hope
words & water 

Friday, September 1, 2017

moving between

this is the quiet hollow of pain before surrender
dull in its persistence
ringed in quilts of cotton & ginger
on this last hot alfalfa night of a long dry summer
but not
of this piquant hour
restless mooned midnight
where somewhere on this last hot alfalfa night
a boy in a red truck waits under the big dipper for a girl in a hurry to grow up
but not
jackson brown plays on a radio from a station just south of chicago
hollow buzz buzzing of energy puzzled into heart and thighs hot
the last hot alfalfa night of a long, dry summer
on this last hot alfalfa night
cotton & ginger