I was am bird

I WAS the girl chosen last because I was skinny & my knee socks didn't stay up

I was the girl whose name was made fun of 

So the girl became bird ....
I was the girl who thought she could change the molecular pattern of
objects and create snow or an apple or direct the wind 
I was the girl who understood that ken & barbie were sleeping together
   and it was time to pack up the toys & turn up Led Zeppelin & the Beatles 
I was the girl who knew the scent & name of every homeless animal in the whole wide world
   and if I thought hard enough, could keep them safe & warm
I was the girl who danced on her bed while singing Hey Jude & Henry the 8th I am am ...
I was the girl who learned about music, weed & how to dance from the best neighbor-boy in the world 

He was 3 years older, gay & funny. He took me to his senior prom. He died of Aids
I was the girl who had a golden ticket to Camelot & a green Pontiac convertible
I was the girl sitting alone at the river knowing answers pooled there 

   along the sandbars & reeds 

   and if I thought hard enough--prayed hard enough
   I would hear the answers and I could then fix things 

I was the girl who discovered James Taylor
   Jack Daniels & orgasm in the same evening (while babysitting) 
I was the girl who found Wonderland under your hands
I was the girl who followed meadowlarks down rabbit holes
I was the girl who married to escape only to be bushwhacked by the karma bus
I was broken girl; weary & afraid, missing pieces of bone & heart
   Only to discover I had them all along
   Bound to my soul with a ribbon of goldenrod & blue sky
I am that girl 
And now I don't wear knee socks (or underwear)  
I still believe if i think fiercely enough, I can shield animals from harm while changing 
   apples into snow into wind 
I am 2 degrees away from knowing Robert Plant
So I sing Led Zepplin with abandon from beds, bars & cars
I have always lived in Camelot & i folded my golden ticket into a tiny origami sparrow

   and placed it inside a wee blue bottle on a thin silver thread
Marriage is ethereal & good magic
All the best stories have magic
I have been to Wonderland

   and some of my best missing pieces are still there 
Every answer to any question can be found in a JT song, 

   a Beatle's song, or a river's song
Karma bus? Well, shit happens. 

Live like you are dying even when you are weary & afraid 
I have stopped trying & wanting to fix things
And strangely--things fix.
I am the unbroken girl 

I am goldenrod, blue ribboned-sky & a meadowlark's song 

of light

your watermark lies upon my thigh
parchment skin, burned edges dry
blue jay's call nestled on my tongue
damage wrung
song of salt & stone
dreams of moonlight call me home

tattoo bands of evergreen
circle round the king & queen
days of tourmaline slip past
pearled fast--woven
hold to dormant rising tide
stories old--a thousand years it took to find

spin the bottle--throw the dart
by scent i knew your tattered heart
ancient magic cast the spell
wind shifts--enchantment dwells
lucky we are--the ones who fly
uncharted path
indigo skies

this side of solstice

there is something about the light after five o'clock now

that
moves--transcends--transports
to some ancient mind-place of aquamarine-glossy-greenness
peeling from a hundred & seven year old hallway 

      smelling of cinnamon, shalimar and cherry pie.
this five o'clock twilight 

shimmers in wakefulness as toes skim carpet
lined by narratives of purpose 

and tomorrows
while from a window ice-mullioned
a single skeleton elm beckons .... thread-bare & still 
a butterscotch-honey connection 

on the corner of
11th and this cold new moon

wake me to this light always ...
wake me to winter's slumbered quest to gaze out the
frosty windows to the ice highways of the plains where river valleys sing of loneliness
sing to me of soul laid hollowed and milk-yellowed 

to the lily-green of spring
this light … 

8:29 on a december morning

some days reflect
white on white
white to brick-red briskness bites

clarity lingers upon the landscape of loss
opalescent
pearled

knit-one-pearl-two

wind is fierce 
snow shrinks to whisper pools of winter
softly

this is childhood: folded in

dripping joy through holes pierced by an ache so large it fills the sky 

with blue blue rolled up & spilling upon land frozen 

and waiting

knit-one-pearl-two

crispness becomes home becomes bone
as
a cardinal red comes and sits upon this folded day
blue-blue rolled up & spilling

knit-one-pearl-two

тоска

PAINT me a picture of dragons & orbs
weaved of the blood and the pain we've absorbed
lacquered in memory of fire & air
curled up asleep alone in his liar
persian & azure--scales tarnished by time
smelling of snow & turkish key-lime
i stand at the entrance opal with shine

paint me a picture of loss & regret
the heart of a dragon will never forget
impaled by a brushstroke
twilight crimson-fire smoke
as hearts synch in three-quarter time
this ancient twining answers all rhymes
the cord transforms to silver-quartz-fine

paint me a picture consistent & true
of dragons & hollows & the magic of blue
who sees the dragon
who sees the soul
transparent to all as trust is the toll

redemption is found in fissures of light
there in the twilight--we hold--we fight
to open in wonder 

       & dance with delight

paint me a picture of dragons & orbs
weaved of a story
     all light we absorb

i told myself a story

words once easy liquid 

feel buried 

deeply hidden beneath sorrow's debris and a forest thick with minefields of contentment 

i told myself a story that i was only a writer when yearning for the unreachable 

spring in winter -- rain in drought

mountains from the prairie plains 

where lives the fire-rise when the present drapes from a vast blue sky?

what words matter when a heart rests in these pink molecules of light? 

why is it harder within the soft folds of these feathered days? 

because I tell myself a story that it is 

portraits captured remain tied tight to the fabric of these slow hours 

tied to the belly rumblings of routine & madness even in the absence of grief's striped cage 

my tarot game remains a shuffling of sensation bookmarked by Sunday's funny pages 

words crafted from the bowels of whales & dreamers 

lay them in the sun  ....

await the burn 

solstice

some days the brush stroke is wide
the paint layers upon the canvas 

fiercely thick
bold
decisive
my grip sure
the paint silk-white-goose-grey
heaven becomes earth becomes heaven
another stroke
brings
the smokey haze of forgiveness
thicker
bolder
ridges reveal fearlessness
the space between
reveals
the sun

winter becomes heaven becomes earth
grip loosens
to the crispness of
becoming blue

(2013) hello to stars, alleys & the folly of 51 days

i have spent 51 days waiting to see if i have cancer
that might seem abrupt, perhaps even insensitive
i don't rightly give a fuck
51 days 

getting ducks-in-order
my ducks are slightly mischievous & typically but in no certain prioritized order:
complex

myopic

hungry 

&

happy Game of Thrones is back on
spending 51 days in the pre-diagnosis paradigm plants me squarely alongside my mother

Norma
Norma first discovered her breast cancer when i was about 12 or 13 … she was 42ish
it brought a hard plastic bubble to my pollyanna-technicolor-groovy-childhood
and
i began to understand the fragility & chaos of life

i also understood cancer 

and the psycho-trippy shit it drips upon a family
my mother survived 

… but that darkness resurfaced 5 years later in her brain
she survived 

       even that for nearly 25 years

but she was forever altered in so many not-so-pleasing & warm-fuzzy ways
i understood the purgatory of symptoms--lumps, bumps & things that keep one up at night
i understood how until you know you don't---you do
i made my peace with cancer (aka death)
baked it a pie

took out it's trash

held it's hand

fought with it

yelled at it
buried shadow-parts 

       in alleys & my backyard in the violet darkness of night
then baked it yet another cherry pie
and
every every year on christmas eve would talk to the stars in a grateful seethingly angry sorta-way
i made my peace, sure 

but in a furious-angry way

my mother & i finally began to get along during the last two weeks of her life

nearly 25 years after that first lump & bump & scary thing

of course, we didn't know it was her last two weeks

but for the first time in a thousand years

she seemed happy

crazy-funny

hopeful almost 

& 

i was learning to appreciate her wit & caustic attitude

i am sure i don't have have cancer---nope nope nope

these 51 days are but a phase of my moon--a bit untethered 

barren

but rich in awareness
i have made my peace

and now it is okay

it is no longer furious & angry 

but golden rimmed in wonder & light 

i will be okay always 

     in large part 

to my mother 

who
rode in this rodeo 

and taught me the weight of my bones.
and i write this for no tea & sympathy
i adore tea

i loath sympathy
(i also appreciate cherry poptarts & large bags of almond m&m's)

i write this because this season smells of rain & the bark of the white birch
and
i write

well ….
because i have to
and
everyone has their very own 51 days sometimes
lost between stars

burying shadows in alleys & backyards

in the violet darkness of night 

elements

white 

this sun 

a tulle skirt 

swan-velvet-trimmed 

    a scratchy twirl-of-a-thing 

bright ribboned to dance upon 

old wood floors shiny & creaky 

a mystical black void movement 

ties the sky to a corset of hidden stars 

twirl 

and 

twist 

    this cosmos 

dance with the day held tightly 

    to these december cloud's 

white leaf girl

We danced the
lindy hop
and the twist
shagging on hi-lo sundown carpet
twirling under arms
holding hands
she took me to her world
her face--a thousand suns
always tan
dazzling
dancing
dancing

We went in search of Autumn's first leaves
turning
deepest reds and bronze maple
yellows like the fields
down a road of towering trees
crisp the air
light drifting to twilight
her face--animated with delight
dazzling
turning
turning

We were caught between worlds
love
and
pain
reach and retreat
afraid to hold to close that which dissolves
to dust
loves twin of loss
her face--mine
loving
loving
she was

dazzling  . . .

landed

 

the spell is brief 

cast upon the crimson stone 

i can hear the river folding from here 

coldness pierces like diamond light to bone 

i wait no more for magic 

but make my own 

Caelum

The desire to grasp the glimmer if for only a beat, a pulse
of smooth encircling light before allowing the liberation
allowing the evaporation to shimmer--become cerulean
cerulean = copper + colbatous oxide mixed & mingled upon a palette
canvas endless of prairie to sky to river wide widening widest
hold fast this pearled moment trembling in forgiveness lost

dimmer than sky blue and azure where the overlap is felt as morning

To clutch--catch the breath hot--hopeful on the capture
there within hands crepe'd and crinoline loomed in sleep
enfold the burst for a beat, a pulse before the stark primordial beauty of
opening knocks the westerly wind from sternum & throat to release the grasp
desire sharped and pressed from gravity, luminous the love comes
crashing, thundering & colliding as stars shift to form constellations
of gods & heroes to cloud our hearts with the scales of verdant regret
green is the actual color of the sun bursting its gleam upon our open hands

dimmer than sky blue and azure where the overlap is felt as morning

Once loose, the glimmer boundless becomes
the thrumming of the day, the ripple of domed-sky of waking-earth of river winding
ceaseless & circling in splendor blueness reflected reflection glistening
towards those nameless, absolute things not mentioned among true companions
except when pirate-punch-drunk on love cracked open as desire shape-shifts
love lies in the gap, a bridge waiting for the next beat, a cerulean glimmer returning

dimmer than sky blue and azure where the overlap is felt as morning

matter

what matters 

nothing is real real 

everything a dream dream 

dreams are real 

birds & branches 

wind & water 

this sun 

this age 

a dream that dreams of a bike, a movie theatre, my dad & you 

sometimes it rages 

sometimes it floats 

this sun 

this age 

this moon 

tuck the dream into the branch and await the bird 

-fucking music- 

moments tinged with golden difference 

we were real we were a dream 

sometimes raging 

sometimes floating 

a bike, a movie theatre, my dad & you 

unpack the dream

sort by color 

     the moments

     the age

     the evolution of self 

goddamit 

the sky changes

the dreams come 

the music plays 

not better without you 

just different

 - somehow - 

i am becoming the sun 

the wind 

the water 

the branch 

the bird 

the sky 

write it across the pink morning sky enough times and the story sounds like mine 

 

omnipresent encounter

weariness flattens bones

{collagen tissued matrix}

pressing white to red becoming  

pink 

weariness is a feather from a migrating bird 

loosened by weather & wind 

falling to prairie's 

gold 

weariness stills movement 

paused--finding stasis 

muscles await the electric thrum of 

silver 

weariness kaleidoscopes intentions 

into hollowed sparked feeling 

an alchemy of time & age turning 

green 

...if we allow its gift of space 

stay 

still 

to sail . . .

Winken, Blynken and Nod one night
set sail in a cashmere boat
with oars made of pearls
and a peppermint hull
and a captain in turquoise coat
the moon rose up
and
captured the night
as sails billowed & filled
carrying the ship
across the sea
under stars from a diamond-quartz mill
an opal deck stretched fore & aft
rainbowing under full-moon
with masts of ebony
reaching up to the night
as a dish whirled about with a spoon
upon the deck
glowed a golden chest
with swirls of amber paisley
a latch made of porcelain
a handle of mint
with buckles of snow-drop daisies
it opened right up
with a will of its own
and
there on a bergamot bed
nestled amongst deep-scarlet silk
was a clock
with a dragon's head
a clock of finest silver
knotted in the finest weave
tic-tocking & churning on wheels & cogs
tiny hands of amethyst vive
the wee dragon's head
shimmered & shone
with scales of deep forest green
eyes of snow, lashes of gold
the most mischievous smile ere' seen
then the dragon peered out of a nest of silk
and yawned with might & sleep
eyes they blinked
nostrils flared
with his wings unfurled he did sweep
out from the clockworks!!
out from the chest!!
wings spread 30 feet wide
fluttered & moved
with grace & aplomb
until he shifted the ocean's tide
waves rolled up
over stem & stern
the peppermint hull they pounded
shuttering--shaking with fury & force
as they captain stood there astounded...
"hang on me maties, hang on me friends
and bring those sails quick down
batten them up & 'don your coat
and pray we all don't drown"
winken, blynken & nod set to work
'astrapping the sails down tight
as the dragon beat his broad, gorgeous wings
raising the ship to moonlight
the vessel set sail upon currents of wind
as the dragon his wings he did fold
he lowered his head,
one small puff he then blew
this quest was ere long foretold;
of a ship,
crew of four,
a night & a song
and a dragon born of stars
to set off on a journey to circle the world
to learn the secrets of Mars
the crew did relax with a sigh of content
as the ship balanced & sped
the dragon at rest on his bed of silk
story born from twilight's thread
winken, blynken & nod set out
humming a broadway tune
captain of turquiose at the helm
as a cow jumped over the moon
the ship flew into deepest night
for coasts & planets unknown
as the crew peered up 'ore the starboard side
and the stars their pleasure shone
the clockwork-dragon rests peacefully
curled up in its quiet, soft space
breathing & dreaming of far off delights
and the piece that fills the hollow place--
a compass for travel
a compass to roam
a dragon of tic-tocking gifts
who appeared one day at a quater to May
always able to compass you home.

sundays

 

come sharp this day 

     with wind and promised grey weather 

coffee fire pondering .... 

time moves slowly -- hollow pressed against the fabric of convention & pause 

what does that mean, slowly? 

is it empty? waiting? 

is it full? yet missing? 

time -- not felt but it is there 

like love 

like peace & contentment 

like this November sharpness so distinct yet invisible 

Ah, there it is!

trapped inside the cardinal perched just outside the window 

     wind and promised grey weather 

come the stillness of a morning ….

Take my fingers one by one and hold them out
away from my small unremarkable palm
paper-chained lines stretched taunt
against the gravity of this waxing-crescent-in-capricorn 
pull my hand up
and
away from my body
up
up
as high & as hard as you can go
until
i am struggling to maintain my balance
rocking, weaving
leaning away from
your force
leaning into the white river birch
that runs along my spine during the winter months
leaning
until
i
surrender
to the prime meridian line
the polar field
of
us
crashing colliding collapsing
your thumb stroking, pressing my heart-line
resistance maple-syruped, viscous and amber
as a 3º morning when you were 10 and the world was ripe
and everything was yours and home lay
in the possibility of discovering that you are greater than your surroundings
and
that folded into the veiled crevices of your soul
dwell dragons, orbs
tilled soil and milo fields
sugar beets
the sound of drums and yellow moons
snake-oil-moonshine
tooled leather and a stone-will
kites

strings of courage
fire-miracles
and
mornings smelling of pancakes and dreams of sex
this morning ...
stars are still visible at 7:07 as the sun rises in a corona of
pale tangerine forgiveness
silent becomes the fear
easy comes the patience
knowing becomes the dance of connection
until the faint clear low of a cello is heard
vibrating
vibrating
vibrating
the cellular structure of nucleotides and ocean tides
against the current of ordinary
while holding a blue-jean-royal flush
and
a fugitive silver-scarfed magician card from
a golden tarot deck
take my fingers
curl them tight underneath your velvet-zeppelin-hand
take the cards and toss them to the swan nebula
you four-fold-warrior-truth-seeker-knowledge-giver
ya'aburnee-maker-self
leaning
leaning
into the urge to....
take each finger
one by one and hold them out
hold them out

stretched taunt 

against the gravity of this waxing-crescent-moon-in-capricorn 

pull 

stretch
lean
collide
into
this
remarkable life

just look at that would you

The sun it rises 

backlighting trees, houses, birds & telephone poles 

yet again 

it rises

somewhere beyond the overcast clouds & dust of this day 

it is here 

yet again 

the wind still blows and those damn clouds obsure the sun 

     for now 

it is there--it is here 

illuminating this street this town this day 

yet again 

despite our sorrow our tiny deaths our despair 

it rises 

lending light to our hearts 

light to this breath this being 

just look at that would you! 

The sun 

......it rises yet again 

to this wild world 

winter birds

the dismantled song of rusted broken things
standing solitary amidst the pale buttermilk corn
bent, 

leaned and listening to songs overhead
time swallowed by weather and cooling 
linger there awhile ...
until the November sun gleams
a bursting golden metallic promise
furrows of love

songs of birds

winter whispers such sweet undoing 

on frost

morning light drifts in pearly-blue
illuminating the smell of snow 
still the branches
quiet this dawn
birds await a promised warming
silence song
pervasive the cold
stunning the chilling
to breath to bone
pale twill be the sun
frost & ice spilling
morning light comes the day

flickers

When resistance lies vanquished
once surrender unfolds like a lark upon your palm
groundlessness rises
as tempest
as leaves caught in the north wind
swirling clockwise to
morning's first light

Winter sits watching for the vulnerable
biting
stinging 

with breath silver-blue
it felt so hollow
(initially)
the allowing
the lack of concern
swirling clockwise to
afternoon's light

Love stands alone
needing naught but truth
rock steady against the stars
grounded in 

cloud formations & constellations
dance to the wind & weather
dance to the sharpness of known things
swirling clockwise in
the waning moon's night

Now November

We
unpack our words
measuring the white space between
in sighs & numbness
threading truth to dreams as stars to night
what longing remains is scattered

now November
we amuse ourselves with what was
adapted
compacted lives rich
yet without the burn
what longing remains scattered
found in sky and moon
dust and entrails tossed
captive fortunes told in leaves and ash
smelling of autumn's smoke

eternal passage granted
rising
rising

what longing remains is scattered

soul-kind

what once was
alludes & binds
a heavy cape of velvet blurs the royal lines
Oh what celestial ink creates this Nebraska-blue?

   veiled in dawn's aubergine new
golden sure this day 
wild moon bright
origami sparrow flying white
oh .....
be careful and wise as wishes do come true:
folded

tucked 

along 

sorrows rue
kaleidoscope seasons 

turn and go ... turn and go
as the dreamscape of want simmers
       then slows 
invisible we become
beige'd to beige
wallflower silent--Einstein's sage
touch yourself
first there!  .... then
                open the vein
and
wake the lost!
ghosts of euphoria tinder the frost
cloaked and hidden I walk thru walls
sweeping up the storylines
our story .... my story 
inked between nights
of
golden fields bloom against legends of light
the cut sharpest at the cold snap of morning bright
while bent
and
mending
the singed edges of
my velvet weighted warming
intent thickens the bones
in the heart of the clear
forgiveness fills the corners
as
moon-shadows drip near
to waken 
to walk 
to be seen through the briar
to lie with the dragons of crystal blue fire

in November's cooling . . .

there is nothing but the dried whiteness of bone
                                and
the crackled richness of autumns' leaves ; fragile & fallen
the scent of snow & sage embraced as it hangs moist & sharp
strung by silver wire fine to the naked white birch
twirling & exposed
relevant organs donated to Oz
movement becoming transgenic, soft & grey
stripped
ashamed by want and
crystalline hollowed
breath irrelevant
surrender here

becoming

inhaling longer--broader
to rest his scent against my heart
as he hugged me to his chest
{he was so tall} !
able to encompass my entire being within his entire being
larger than life 
thoughtful he walked this earth
bright he shined

he had a spot--a nesting place
things within an easy reach;
comfy sofa
a phone
a legal pad
a place for coffee (or scotch)
glasses
a magazine or newspaper

quite unexpectedly
the poignant bite of awareness dawned
i too have my spot--a nesting place
things within an easy reach;
comfy sofa
a phone
paper to write
a place for coffee (or scotch)
glasses
a magazine

and a brightness that lays upon the blonde wood
upon the nesting place
a shine that follows me wherever i go
ever longer--ever broader--evermore
pressed there against my heart
encompassing my entire being
larger than life
this one precious life 

things within an easy reach

we become

tyto alba

the wing span of a barn owl is 42 inches

42 inches of ghost feathers & furl 

lifted on particle currents of atmosphere 

dip & dive

dip & dive 

silent nocturnal flyer 

dip & dive 

      &

find me  

         there in slumber beneath worry & bramble 

trembling in stasis 

exultant in dark possibility 

wrapped in skin with age & aspirin 

awaiting your golden piercing 

dip & dive
      &

capture 

me 

snapshot of day

dark of morning blooming 

winds have ceased their roaring 

quiet 

colors 

fire 

warming 

this moment lighted stillness 

heart beating 

breath connecting 

all before to here 

simple exacting presence 

October ~ of writing

 cotton moon 

of searching's lament 

there upon the doormat 

words are thick - hardly flowing 

bowing to a coolness unpromised 

by collision & remorse 

poems lie at the bottom of torment 

tucked away & nestled now 

      in layers & layers of felted acceptance 

love & leaves are funny things 

caught in the cold breeze of dark hours 

cotton moon 

of searching's lament . . .  

of gloamings lean

standing in the doorway
-there-
between the kitchen and dining room
looking at your
back
diligently washing whatever you were washing

standing in the doorway
crossing arms 

suddenly 

possessed by Virginia Woolf
leaning 

golden nectar dripping
"There's something inside the bone...the marrow
...and that's what you gotta get at."
dispassionate intent upon discovery
the reason 

he
is not
you
no desire to connect his molecules
one
to
another
infinite
tender aching
flesh beneath fingers trembling with.....
need?  

want?  

something eternal 
(fuck need
and all its friends)
his back is not your back
and no amount of gin will change that
no desire to press against his back
slipping hands down
          down
down
to 

embrace
release

...welcome home anything
of earth and sea
no compass north pulling
             pulling
me to him

he is not you
his back not as regal
oh sanguine Apollo
his
eyes not seeing
me 

standing here
standing
regarding
tolerating 

this quiet house
my invisibility

gin and juice
odds a thousand to one, two, unbuckle the moon
my head upon your chest once more
home to
earth to
sea
pulling pulling 

leaning into
the doorway

dog days of summer

where you see one thing i see another 

depth where you see shallow 

generous to your narrow 

green to your grey 

hero to your callow 

you tease me with your pale colors 

amused by your coyote tricks 

while i smell the wolf 

and taste the winter 

of your summer 

there is no fool behind door #2 

no sycophant jester performing for the tools 

i see the glory while you see the grim 

sky blue to your idiot sublime 

waking up to your full cup 

again and again 

begin 

*there

grief 

lies in the shadow

untamable 

unnameable 

vulnerability alludes the tapping fire 

as wildness calls us to the salted Sun 

speaking in tongues of divinity against the structure 

of fear .... 

of summer ....

i step aside ---into the corner of this waking dream
surrendering all sense of self & line
you are voracious

blurred by shadow 
intent upon the breaking of the glass mask & tower walls
no weave of fabric holds
as your tongue circles my breath
the mandrake bores into the damp earth of waiting 
the blending fuck of scorched souls arches into a mandala moment
arched

pressed 

open  
chaos melts 
and fractal light bends into the surge of heat & primal ache 
quiver

moan & tangled  
air is sucked & held 
holding

holding

for the wash & rush of sacred water over the sharp & tattered edges 

from my corner . . .
i quietly watch

blinded by the borealis 

quenched  

by it's taste 

waiting

 I have been there  ... 

in the space between barely breathing 

thistles & vervain cushion my steps 

     but they have been few 

they have been compassed towards you 

yet 

     the Sun shines 

on me right here with all my sweat & heartache 

with all these scars I was told to keep out of the Sun 

because they will darken & thicken 

yet

they become thick with ignorance & disgust as well 

so stand in the Sun 

darken those scars and 

point your thistle vervain compass towards your own heart 

towards your own Sky and Sun and Being 

brief

 knee deep in saffron fields 

smelling of regret & acceptance 

I am all that has been within this sweep of hand 

of gaze 

of breath 

present

      it has been days that feel like years since i've written any words 

here 

from my lips 

from my hands drip broken tea cups full of blossoming 

blue skies and space 

endless images drip behind my eyes inked & outlined 

clouds once white become the leaves of songs 

gifted offerings of birds & plastered dreams 

what chapter is this? 

what lies here with me within this life? 

the bark of summer trees or the borrowed aspects of others 

I've gathered to my cups? 

delicate presence awakening towards the sun 

take your time

 Don't go about it all willy-nilly 

tie your shoes first 

(make sure you didn't forget your pants) 

masks no longer required 

(for the time being) 

deep breaths are good here  

take your time 

wear a light jacket - maybe that blue one 

open the door 

and 

two-step towards the street 

quick step quick step slow step 

pause 

deep breath 

look up to the waiting sky 

arms up 

leap towards the morning moon there in the West 

push hard against the Earth 

trust it 

PUSH HARD! 

trust the Earth to send you 

trust me to catch you 

      there just beyond that wispy white cloud 

I will catch you 

Of a dog

Concave lies the hole 

the missing 

the loss 

   too great to learn the topography of .... 

   too recent to fill with another 

Huck was a pup 

self's true companion 

unconditional 

unrelenting 

     love 

now 

    this invisible force 

this presence pressing 

i swear I just heard you shaking 

   your wet fur, your wee being there in the dining room 

just now 

Oh, how your missing creates such sorrow 

        see you tomorrow   

         

Prairie

What is this freckled landscape found here? 

     shadows & light scattered about the fields still fallow & fair 

sandhill cranes alight to prance flirtatiously 

     to eat, to rest under a northern wind - gray clouds appear 

dotted & dizzy seeking sun's glare 

                 Spring's unfolding graciously 

 

Bowing--rising--greeting each prairie day with silver wings 

    Oh! What ridiculous creatures we are compared to them ....

two-legged gasping wingless beings 

    striving & trying for such useless things 

Spring teachings  

of what i don't know

 he talks of wheels & cogs 

wheels & cogs 

wheels & cogs 

endlessly looping on structure & function 

endlessly talking of HVAC production 

this part goes here 

this part goes there 

i. don't. care. 

coming back

An ever widening aperture 

paintbox of color trying to burst the black & white  

suddenly the field beyond awash in golden-grey 

this 

prairie state 

this simple street 

in a simple town 

1958 

sun at a quarter to a late afternoon 

summer blue explodes across the sky  

clouds gathering 

field lays dry 

a simple white house comes into hazy view 

a driveway 

stationwagon 

a man dressed for town in suit & tie 

a beautiful woman dark-haired & tanned 

baby pink-cheeked & lace

     as a pony goes galloping by

a palomino no saddle or reins 

running East 

towards the forecasted rain 

the camera stays with the babe 

     as she's placed in her crib 

but we see her kaleidoscope mind searching for the horse 

she knows he's not far 

as he followed her here from beyond this place 

somewhere distant 

some different place 

a companion of sorts--a seeker of spirit of bone 

a teller of tales of the vast unknown 

we see the pale horse 

     turning back to the West 

we see the babe sleeping--dreaming 

as clouds darkly thicken 

a thunderstorm boldly bursts over the simple street and dry fields

as the horse comes to stand before the simple white house 

waiting 

knowing the baby slumbers 

with rain & love prevailing 

and then some

trespassed gazebo brambled tight 

shy language of the night 

summer grass collides against the milky way

stars foreplay 

driving fast 

with only you 

two souls reckless rendezvous 

yellow shirt 

white jeans 

that belt

rumpled sheets 

oh! what i had with you 

dragons, orbs & rescues 

scent of meadow fescue 

elven tongue 

games begun 

midnight conversation's twilight 

these secrets shared 

we dared

what i had with you 

different paths 

bridge to moon 

the painter, the poet 

a drifter

a meadowlark whisperer 

uncovered 

discovered

parts of self turned whole 

fire tempered unfolds  

amidst empty foolish possibility 

wasted time? 

what i had with you 

smaller hands now search for mine 

hide-n-seek & trumpet vines 

make believe 

with only you 

love always circles round anew 

oh what i had with you 

the edge of things ...

distance becomes blue 

seeping to bones of linen lost 

prism pressed in equations
exponentially lost 

yet 

greater than the speed of light

particles fractured into a thousand spinning suns 

ringing with the vibrations of whiskey, waiting undone 

blue + linen becomes a softer blue 

content with this sun
and
these dust motes holding true 

ode to a place by a river

tangle the thread
watch the indigo bloom
corn gone to seed
'neath the three-quarter moon
sweet pollen of prairie hangs in the night
sticky nostalgia drifts three stars to the right  
tapped-pulled and pressed to pink twilight's burst
tumbled and scattered as dust-motes rehearse
at once both trapped under yesterday's kiss
and
here in this field under stardust & mist
eyes closed to hold tight this vestige of sensation
eyes open to welcome the electric vibration
-here-
in the vastness of wide open night
-there-
pierced & gifted with one promise bright
untangle the thread
smell the coming of rain
lay down in tall grass 

remain

victorious moon

transformed
by wind
by storm
and rivers golden cups
linear burning from the hyacinth bud 
poised
     upon
          the
               sill of day
rest beneath these three swords
magic manifesting
opal
and
blue

blue
bluer
bluest

transformed poppy to sunshine whiskey
a sparrow lands and takes it all away

Ahh, Perseus

my heart has been pinched between
the Milky Way
and the raspberry bush
and
left to die

love in the tall grass

Nebraska skies are cloudy 

with weather on the way 

you call and wonder if i heard that song 

though three years have passed away

(though actually four)

four years 

but three feels saner somehow 

and i answer as if it was just this morning 

from 

some fancy elevator 

you called to say you loved me more 

     and the room gets draped in shadows prism'd grey 

just as the day's dandelion sun hides away 

at only four 

sitting on the dining room floor 

breathless 

lifeless 

blood singing against bones too fragile for May 

silence is sex & water 

lifting to sorrow's fields golden and

wishing wishing 

for more of the things not asked for 

love is found in the corners & the contrast 

of rosemary and leather-honeyed tongues 

have i heard that song? 

of course i have 

on a concrete loop amidst the blue of my days 

he tells me all the things i want to hear from lips 

things whispered over lines & skin 

thru dreams dark with dust & power 

he says the lines of every song 

though it's four not three 

there's some fragment of memory 

lodged in the feathers of this spring 

holding a foolish cloudy wonder 

     with weather on the way 

rain always brings you home 

and i'll answer the door 

like it's three not four 

there

come tell me of something eternal 

something that sings from your heart bones 

a thing resplendent in shine 

a thing that vibrates true 

you feel it don't you? 

how bright your light 

you feel it?

love's home?

come  

april sparrow

wait! 

alight! 

wind-wind-wind-wind-wind 

fly! fly! try! fly! 

alight!  no ... not here 

there 

there! 

a branch birch white 

WIND! 

grasp grasp grasp release 

let go 

         fly 

small am i against the clear blue 

sky bright 

a branch down there appears bare 

to 

await the afternoon light 

all's fair

Tell me of 

an army that marches on its stomach 

oh how all logic plummets!

a fish, an apple, a loaf of bread 

an army turns all exceptions to rule the head 

from mind and heart fear is shed 

courage often lies in strange fellows beds 

from feet -- strength comes -- no ties that bind 

to sinew & bone - muscles strive & strive ...

an army that marches needs a fair wind to ride 

"Hope" is the thing with feathers...

Hope lies beneath the wing feathers of a meadowlark that

is momentarily paused upon 

the curly willow and the yellow thing there, that 

thing one uses to sweep away remorse from the shawdowlands 

with whispers tucked within the

feathers of a daydream . . . 

Giganticus Brutervious

along the banks of Walgren Lake 

on nights when stars burn bright 

one spies  

a mudpuppy greyed & horned 

singing & riding an apple red trike 

pedaling fiercely his tiny legs churn 

along the banks of this tranquil pond 

his scaled body leaning into each wide turn 

two feet broad & ten feet long 

he spouts as he pedals 

a trilling stream of song 

this mudpuppy of Lake Walgren 

always a real charmer ... 

Oh Nebraska such delights you harbor 

NaPOWriMo Poetry Writing Prompt Day Four

 1. Find yourself in youth driving along a backcountry road in Colorado 

2. Think twice before taking the right hand turn 

3. Think again 

4.Turn backwards in the passenger seat to alter our view 

5.  Roll down the window 

6. Smell deeply 

7. Laugh at his joke 

8. Suddenly hear the bluejay singing just there by the river 

9. Notice the deer swimming upstream in same river 

10. Smell more 

11. Turn back around to sit in the seat the typical way 

12. Take a nap as he takes you higher 

13. Wake two hours later 

14. Open the door 

15. Find the poem there at the base of the second aspen tree next to the big pink rock 

to wake

 "Bones"  by Mary Oliver

......."our part is not knowing

but looking, and touching, and loving

which is the way I walked on,

softly, through the pale-pink morning light."

to wake   , , , 

To wake each morning 

in darkness unsure 

replete with dreams 

and starlight 

rising and walking and waking 

touching upon tender pink hope 

that lies in the day's early hours 

we wish, we reach and strive 

to embrace whatever lies beyond the rising 

....our part is not knowing 

step by step by waking step 

a certain weariness settles 

as the sun rises on in shadows & light 

...and birds 

bring sweet melody upon a breeze

spring promised 

by sprouts of purple hyacinth and 

daffodils butter yellow brilliance 

our place, our breath, our being, nothing more  

but looking, and touching, and loving 

come day ~ 

bring on your color erudite & everlasting 

there the dogwood's red buds come on so delicately 

as a thousand crocus endeavor 

to find the clever sun 

gently I step between the mounds of life & loam 

gently as the clouds drift casually against the blue 

everything a whispered promise of warmer days 

gently, gently ... 

which is the way I walked on 

walked on through the subtle morning light 

reflection coming on through window glass 

walked on to early morning coffee 

dawn's reminder of evermore 

day's hours clocking past 

walked to pass out to bird's gathering  

resilient to april wind 

remarkably courageous new day 

coming on 

softly,  through the pale-pink morning light 

long grass

restless 

relentless 

the wind does that 

days upon days  

present amongst the long grass 

toary fields stretching to the blue sky horizon-line 

here fly the harrier hawks and short-eared owls of dusk 

shielding & sheltering & hunting 

         in the blonde stalks 

be still and smell the wind 

the scent of season's changing drifting in waves 

this late afternoon light 

this late day golden 

a story about the body or not

 every day is accompanied by a body that is not of my own making but of my own making 

dripped 

in 

extraordinary time 

a vessel myrtle'd each spring between the somnolent and the rain why oh why are we waking just as we tire from the ordinary, why is this not the face i believe to be mine but that of someone much older and not yet laced with wisdom bolder  but infinite and golden

wire wrapped in every joint & sinew this sharp reminder of mortality echoes against the bloom of april

against the spark of tenderness that the robin sings so easily of .... 

stripped

moss always grows on the north-side of trees 

even in winter's cold darkness 

given enough light 

moss grows 

beckoning to the constellations that lie there 

out there 

up there 

dividing the haves & the have-nots of bark & branch & belief 

moss grows on hard things 

trunks & brick & hearts 

which direction do you face when the sun shines? 

do you allow moss to grow there between the rivers & rises of your desires? 

moss always grows on the north-side of trees 

11:10 retro-soul-dust

Everything is Bollywood carnival-dog
slap jack & jackalope abalone poker
two-step, side-step & dance a little closer . .
Ring around the rosy, pockets full of blackbirds
syncopated entanglements of undecided waters
we waltz to rhythms pyro-plastic & unsure
no trees, no bees . . global jihad on it's tour

Everything is neon
no pastel softness to be found
snowy owls make headlines
as tender bones lay upon Somalia's ground
jumping-jack-flash sings for recompense
One a penny, two a penny hot-cross-mess
solar flares shift as politics lace this holy ground
splashing hope & god to glory
evermore where labyrinths bound

Everything is matter and matter rides the zephyr train
boomerang cupcakes & bluestem coyote-pain
random sparks of poppy-cane
sure as crocus sprouting 

and the scent of thunder rain
circle your paint wagon Monet & Gauguin
like a diamond in the sky as star-dust rivers our souls
Dreams paint our daytime
as story's words are sowed . . .

Everything is cotton
Everything is dust
The owl and the pussycat went to sea
on knotted threads of crimson trust
Mercury flaps a flapjack
jousting with the moon
Borealis morning
Collide will happen soon . .

the call of Spring

The cranes are on the river
swooshed ruffling feathers on ice & winter water
heart-bones vibrating to the ancient gathering call
against morning's violet sky

of March ....

 what joy & idle lie here 

along this branch that arches 

 to a sun hidden by clouds 

this day feels tender & possible 

there is no skin 

no boundary between what is mine 

and what is everything 

it is all arching towards an infinite sky 

possible 

here

 a rainforest burst against the desert of my lips

              pressed & imprinted 

                        there 

a trace of chalky white sand smelling of the sea & antiquity 

               there for eternity 

sun burning melting my skin to yours along the horizon-line of dreams & vast emptiness 

             saturated with wild wonder I wait 

                 for the cooling of night   

silvertone

there is a frequency coming thru the thinned porcelain berry 

pitched to a winter cardinal

north south east west 

this wind blows from river to plains 

to

mountains west 

straight line wired on a midnight promise 

bound for boulder canyon on the zephyr train 

root me to earth with birdsongs of spring 

and the sorrow of finer things

drifts pile pile against the need 

for a clean slate 

surrender all your shame

here 

amongst the  debris of storms 

and 

      love 

root me 

take me 

leave me 

all the same under a snow promised 

pink sky day 

surprise/no surprise

 mad hatters & cambrics 

moons & twilight 

snowflakes 

grasslands and turkish delight 

i've crafted & weaved your affections in ink 

painting the inside & outside to link 

    to the crimson red threading my hand 

bring me back to gazebos in summer grass & the taste of cheap wine 

bring me back to the twisting open road 

with you under my hand 

sharp

silent 

sunburned wedding bands 

hold on 

hold on ... to this ride 

so treacherous & so long 

mad hatters & cambrics 

moon & twilight 

snowflakes 

grasslands and turkish delight 

how preciously shimmering this one wild life ....

these days

 death is my constant 

     these days 

step for step 

no longer a shadow to the hours 

but a piper leading to grace & belonging 

wrapping me in waiting 

white velvet cooling 

      these days 

rabbit holes

 i answered the door and home crossed the threshold 

velvet worlds beckoned 

 we jumped  1 … 2 … 3 

slipping into comfort & cloaks of knowing 

walls sang of edges 

the sheets sang of us 

alignment a funny thing - how it falls from your hand 

reckoning 

1…2…3. 

what rises from the dust becomes a rusted trust 

good luck charms burn just like old trees with a little gasoline 

skin holds the trace of love like a secret tattoo 

always there 

across the threshold 

1...2...3