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 

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 

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 

dante's dart

i remember quite clearly the night the worlds sadness as my own

pink nylon baby-doll pajamas, appliquéd blue flowers & ruching

8 yrs old, hair long & pigtailed the color of cornsilk

kneeling on my bed

pressing against screen of the open window 

pressing 

leaning 

gazing 

into the september nite

late

dark 

quiet

twinkling stars

tasting the lonely despair on the end-of-summer breeze

a parade of heartache & pain leaked into my skin leaving its burn 

i saw an ancient, folded & forgotten mahogany woman pacing to & fro across some cracked damp floor

a solitary soldier cold & wet loosing his humanity with every step

a frightened child with dark eyes hiding from the sharp sting of thoughtlessness

a small boney white dog not understanding how gentle hands can be

a stolen life

a fearful task

a lonely death

dante's dart landed upon my heart

no amount 

of pink groovy psychedelic sunshine could stop that parade upon the fabric of my soul

so i would kneel upon my pink groovy bedspread in my pink groovy sunshine life

every nite

pressing against the darkness 

gazing out 

gazing up 

     at the stars 

wishing for strength

wishing for magic

wishing for enough love to shoulder

dante's dart

September 9th

somedays the blue jay is quiet
my throat constricted
walled against the joy i know resides in my belly
tight as a folded rosebud in spring

somedays the blue jay is quiet

narrow & small
pasted to the back corner pocket
a particle of pink agate
tucked -- trembling with the less-than

stillness tumbling in sorrow's shadow against the day

somedays the blue jay is quiet
no breeze to rock the branches of the hackberry
no acorns falling from the oak
no robins waking to dawn
just an empty aching echo

grayness falls into my corner
draping its felted electricity over old bones
clutching,,,,wrapping tighter
it transforms to feathers

and i fly

no need to sing when all the words become the sky

...so beloved by the universe
no mortals here can compare