from the other side

--here--
the view vast
soft blue cold
wildness upon my tongue
tangled contentment
soft blue contentment
      this winter's afternoon
restless yearning
held in by the hands of time
hands of my own design 
palliative amusements linger over licorice tea & marzipan tempests
sweeping winds carried on the backs of nuthatches
soft blue cold
wrapped wool knowing  

sing to me of water & dreams
sing to me of winter's bite
hold me in golden arms that smell crisp & ripe
sing to me of home
of ancient fields folded

soft blue cold
this view from the other side 

legacy drifting

here lies the heart for circus tents
stripes & poles & elephants
building up--tearing down
riding trains from town to town

i slept in garrets castle walls
wrote by candles thru wars & falls
corseted lace & leather vests
secluded, deluded by nature's scent

i had the legs to scale great heights
breathe the air of starry nights
spread these arms to vistas high
feel comet's rush--touch the sky

i toiled in fields on soldier's thick
patching, repairing--holding the sick
ancient wisdom in hands small
what lies in men i knew it all

i had the soul to change the world
to step off edges wings unfurled
fearless & flying & comet bound
to leave the earth more green, more round

instead
...my life lies ordinary
tucked & tended--hardly legendary
yet each moment holds opal-chasms-delight
each breath cradles day's twilight

we strive to leave a mark--a talisman
our solitary time here passing
each thread, each hand, each song is spun
to connect us all to the path of the Sun

i had the heart for circus tents 

The blue you fall into

there is a blue you fall into
     on a winter morning
an eternal blue
-remembered-
            of reflected fields furrowed gold

cyan rivers wild
shallow
untamed
claimed by golden-pink cirrus-threads
dancing to the sun
coolness wraps solitary & still
below the branches of the hackberry & maple
whispering of
night things

moonbeams
birds silent
breezes rising shifting
dark to alice-blue-gleam
the blue you fall into
winter morning dream

avian way

i have come to see 

he 

responds only to thin hollowed-bone creatures 

that bear their weight in feathers & songs ancient & untamed 

he looks to listen for wings & rising amongst winter's river channels wide 

harriers

red-tails 

barred & short-eared owls 

cranes cardinals 

chickadees 

all these 

fill his thoughts 

fancy or flight 

   or perhaps it's freedom 

he 

finds 

for the water ...

these words have steeped for a while now 
in this vessel of november sky & the golden light of plowed fields
you are water-turquoise-cinque-terre-blue 
soothing, enveloping & sure
with the crystalline smell of first snow--icy apple-crisp
spiced with a lavender borealis & ginger zest
you allow the float

the surrender

the paintbox to swoop in & rise to song
present in love

forgiveness & laughter
you ride between wonder & sage-ness
taking prisoners wildly delighted in their felted chains
with a hand of grace & skill
mischievous

     you lure your sailors with guinness cake & a canvas of surprise
crafting connection with brush strokes of color-wheel possibility
holding us all closer to the light
shining & floating

water-turquoise-cinque-terre-blue

buffalo plaid

that dream again;
      cowboy bonfires
under novemeber moon's lament
laced & lingered
drifting
twisting to tumbleweeds
sweep me into the ashes of the day 
soothe the whimper of winds cold cold
touch the wool wet from promised snow
drifting
twisting
falling
    i curl into the smoke from your dreams
          dancing to the song of stars

when the moon kisses venus in capricorn

somewhere south of here

i became meadowlark'd
solitary sentinel perched on dawn's break
green grass

milo

cornsilk call
vastness unfolding
fog fills the frame tight
yellow-gray worshipper of sun's might
feathered flight

somewhere east of here

i became yours
tempered by time's cloud ponies
stars & blue snow line our scars
purple the bruise--fragile the thread
cradling regret to the end of the line
rising electric to golden wild thyme
we harvest the cost--we weigh the crime

somewhere west of here

i became water
polished aqua-sea-glass smooth
smelling of pearls

dust 

salt
tethered to the wind
upon tides high crest i climb
finding my way by polaris' shine
landing upon winter's shore intact & divine

somewhere north of here

i found me
of meadowlark feathered bravery
of love--replete with cracks of pocked light gleaming
of water opalescent mercury seeming
to journey the bridled heart thru trails hardness
breadcrumbed by darkness
Ah, what bliss this sharpness!

patchouli room

laying in wait

for the potion to take 

a tender light hold of your heart 

at six thousand feet 

the atmosphere's weak 

   and the lover abandons his part  
this grey morning gloom 

all the pain in this room 
high country's fragile fresh start 

patchouli room 

ghosts autumn tomb 

the fire fails to spark

love, please come to bed 

let's get naked instead
    of eviscerating our fractured cold stars 

masks are just futile 

but 
surrender is beautiful 

this room will treasure our scars 

what should have been ours 
dissolved to salt stars 

no embers spark to fire
on tongues sharp with dust
our demons breathe rust
expectations brambled brier
thru iced windows glaze

deer come to graze 

as

we surrender our bricked-up desire 

patchouli room 

'neath silvered frost moon
trust tumbles & falls to bed 

fear slips to the side 

solace abides
the potion was ours for the taking

golden day dawns
intimacy bonds
pine wraps around crisp bones
stolen locket of time
partings solitary rhymes
with words 

    the spell is breaking

November 14th

the morning leans open
mild as an April
yet here we sit in mid-November
it should be brisk--snap--brittle--chill

but it is this

this portal of spring stranded against the softest blue blue sky
pressed between the panes of summer & frost
forty-eight degrees and rising
riding
a rolling south breeze teasing leaves golden brown
everything is a golden brown ... amber hued
this
the blue jay circling the hackberry tree knows the truth
knows the magic of this brilliant morning
who knew there could be this shade of blue

mild as an April

full

corona full 
linen-stardust lined life 
still 
                      I find you 

in the scent of seasons 
amidst the change of colors

of wind ... and time 
in the luster of these hazy red-leaf'd days 

pools of light 

lie amidst the blue 

tangled in autumn's fire 

are we captor or captive?

isolated upon the hour hand 

i know nothing of how we got here 

except 

here is this 

season of us 

pressed into surrender by hourglass rides & fast cars

again & again we return to wonder 

return to the pools

of a crisp blue morning 

tethered to stars 

illumination

You steal beside me like an ochre whisper
phantom presence
softly erasing all negative space
blooming into darkness & the quiet burn of a million stars
"Make a strong line, don't sketch it out - be sure when you draw"

       you once told me
Be sure
 . . . drawn then
Held

      with a kiss that carries the weight & spin of this blue rock
exquisite
containing the 1949 worlds fair

the soundtrack to fantasia
& maybe the partridge family
ruby-throated hummingbirds land on my tongue & travel thru my soul
stealing all measure of hurt
weaving a patch of feathers

words & succulence over all wounds
skin is diffused & forgiven---effervescent
inconsequential to the heart of the matter
celebrated by the sureness of snow as it lies on my lips
direct & boldly waiting for the sureness of the melt
boreal & piercing
and sure 

stolen

thinking on the tumult of things ---
of wind & water rising
ripping at the ordinary
with flesh & spirit comprising
how do we find the moon-float
to forgive the gale its course
to part the sorrow from the sojourn
to quell the typhoon force
does the mud dream of purpose & green
do the waters still in regret
is courage tapped in the reach to care
as tropic day falls to sol's set
thinking 

    on the tumult of things
of wind & waters calm
finding the strength to hold & lean
as the weight becomes the psalm

at six o'clock

i took a glass of bourbon from the flame
and threw it to the moon

waning crescent 
39% luminous

spell cast
conjuring
conjuring
holdfast

there now
we are here
now
the other side of missing smells of snow forecast
pink twilight calling night
Joni playing looping unmoving
there now
we are here
now

there is no ache
no yearn
no burn
for that golden field

the thread remains
longing wanes

becoming a glass full of the smell of leaves burning
waiting to be sipped with long-eared owls & secrets
sharp
tine is wasting--waiting
can you taste it on the back of your tongue?
ahh ... you still taste me

throw it to the moon with a glass of bourbon at half past six

conjuring the other side of missing

the smell of leaves burning

Can a hole become art 
     to become not a hole but something else 

transformed
full & complete 
refashioned with found objects:

that silver monopoly dog
blue bandanas

the sharp cut of sorrow
cornfields & meadowlarked loss
    autumn hued & weaved with blood-orange thread
to shuttered gasps & ooo's of admiration
can a hole be not a hole
patched with time & tender & song to mend it's fibrous fragility
looming itself into sunset ribbons of amber richness
who am I to love so well

    yet so wrong 
but not wrong
more like that hole
strangely

   ironically
      comes
the startling realization that it has shifted
quickened -- sharp
as
the forecasted boulder snow
self lies in the punched surrender to the puppet masters demand
listening & dancing to the bubbled needs of others
steadfastly refusing to howl at the moon & shine a light into the need
rake the leaves reverently into the
Hole

revolution is where 
in the crumpled pages of secret whispers & timeless sureness
in the ability to recognize strength in weakness
      and in the turquoise gleam of happy hanging in a thiefed reel
fighting for a heart-path is a wicked & quixotic endeavor
tempered by the accepted--righteous is not always so
loneliness carves it's own mask
as the struggle & pull of need creates 

red 

welcome the rhythm of this night in
bits of story & stars
dance & celebrate the patched hole
gather up copper

bronze & scarlet-dragon leaves
fire it up
trust the light

angels

dip me in the nectar of acorns
dusted with azure & green
pressed against night
do that
ten thousand times
and
return me home
to
you

dress me a kestrel who talks to ghosts
on every third tuesday
crimson--swirly & electric
pulsing
honey-dancing
absorbing words like apricot candies
left out as a temptation to delight
while outside it rains
cats & dogs & sorrow

my slip is made of perfume & tobacco
regal leafed

empty of self

talk to me of your dreams
walking alone in alleys as bullets zip too close to call it a win
talk to me ....

and I will listen 

night visible

willow-curly
trembled femininity pursued against the chipped & sullen gray
sun upside-down hedge-apple-cake
words buried under the red-yellows of fall
falling
falling
winter eager at the gate of white-evermore
as
the porcelain berry sings of
indigo-blue stillness
a dream of evening's new moon
willow-curly hanging moments

holes & stars

funny the things that slip
the name of that oil that goes in the apple salad
a burner left on high with butternut soup
the appointment tomorrow
the day of the week
the name of that guy
that you are there and i am here
funny the things

should my eyes hold hostage the last rays of sun
narrowing to a channel unremarkable
i will be ok
as i have read of Arabian nights, whales and Merlin
Gondor & white horses
i have beheld the magic of a grandson


should these legs refuse to move
no problem
as i have kicked the can
played red rover, red rover
and
run home from
school
as the wind
and a
palomino
even when broken & weary
they have served me well
through rivers & fields



if my breath should fade
no problem
i have stood on a mountain
breathing pine & love & rain
i have
laughed & kissed
sighed & cursed


but
if i
should not remember you
Ahh , , my darling that holds no gem of unraveled truth
for you are the golden arrow to the magnetic north
of
my everything 

there was a time

everything feels golden 

the memory 

the smell of air & wind 

dust & fragments of time ....

golden lie the fields 

golden the sun reflected upon the channels of river 

golden the sandbars 

bricks & bikes 

boys & day-dreams 

golden the sidewalks in spring 

     the streets in summer 

golden they lie against the robust blue sky 

every memory golden 

enough of me

The need to burn
to give the daemons some sky
in order to move past this grateful-stasis spot

shift to saffron's affirmation
oh!
trinity lineage be damned
experts at divine expectation and divinity rising
all the while distilling emotions
for song & mournful moon-dancing 

reformation & academics
god trumps all things human
here is my confessional:

spark the tinder …..  burn

September

when i die 

i will 

     become purple 

     the purple of an iris .... johnny-jump-ups & hyacinths 

     the purple thread of swooshy clouds at twilight over the Platte River 

     the purple feathers of a Costa hummingbird 

when i die i will become blue 

    morning sky blue 

    after rain blue 

    September blue sky blue 

i will be blue 

when i die Oo to be green!

     the green of trees that line a river bed 

     verdant fields waiting for someone to take notice & dance 

when i die i will become a dream 

       a dream that leaves you too soon 

storms to the west

there are times when darkness lies forgotten upon my skin
hollowed

broken
knowing starlight is somewhere 
      but feeling the microfiber of grey
rub annoyingly
the
wrong
way

friction becomes current becomes 
wind 

moving things unseen--forgotten

i notice & refuse to open
a box of paints

eyes close 

songs are heard
--whisper tracings--
again with the dove-grey 

faint & haunting
there
there
the crackle of dreams & place
grace
glory
and
knowledge find the honeyed bleed of this night
and
shutter in their brilliant sureness

soon

the song of birds

 morning holds a pink hollowness 

haze soaking to ground 

sultry--heavy 

waiting for a small chance of rain 

no redemption 

for this lost day 

words narrow 

    held against the soil to become something else 

entirely 

breath holds to the same pink hollowness 

awaiting the splendor of hope 

lunar moths

cats in tin-foil hats 

larks that spark 

leaves and bees 

        drip carelessly 

from trees 

leaving me 

{leafing me} 

breathless 

restless 

summer wonderlust 

trust all  

lemon grass & sassafras 

sunburns 

life turns 

on dimes quarter-time 

tick tocking never stopping for one breath 

one stretch 

       of the lunar moth cat in the tin-foil hat 

questions

 late june 

sits upon the branch with a somber ease 

awaiting the swelter 

the fireflies

the rain 

there is a stillness here 

a reflection of what is 

      and what has past 

resting against this waxing scorpio moon 

     while I wonder where the owls have gone ....

twenty-first of june

listen
to that verdant particle fullness

chirping beneath this ecru canvas
expansive
and
rolling

rolling
somedays nothing comes to the surface
but
the clouds of this storm
this rain
falling

falling
cycles & spirals
carousels of summer
thunder comes
once
again

hide and seek

Larkspur blue clementine sky
cotton ache to sorrow's sigh
respite & repair wounded love's flight
to tie to bind, await the coming night

sing to me of linen loose & raw
songs unleashed upon the devils claw
summer heat bears down to corn and furrowed row
rising smoke rings of river's willow

raise ye up upon shoulders brown with rain
raise up the land, raise up voices tame
fight the dirge--the weariness left to bind
come the night, sleep is what we'll find

what we seek becomes not the treasure found
where we place our hearts binds fast and sound
to bone, to marrow this land cries out for one
the moon holds us captive hidden from the sun

when you are sitting in a dark room gazing

when you are sitting in a dark room gazing out into the black night
and one lone firefly lights itself up like the fourth of july over the prairie 

all belief is suspended all doubts fade 

and there is a hanging possibility as it moves darting higher and 

i gasp 

as it is
beautiful and solitary and perfectly totally oblivious to the rain about to fall 

the thunder and lightening gypsying its way here to this small wee house on this small wee spot 

on this enormous big blue marble 

and all things become mighty apparent like the soul of horses the sureness of you 

the layered delicate task of parenting, camping and lemon meringue pie 

(how fucking amazing books are!)
and the ridiculous over-simplification of wicked things like justice water poverty illness 

--ALL become parts of the whole--parts of the something more requiring trust and love 

and that firefly sparks again and again and now there is thunder and the thrumming in my heart echoes 

into that place reserved for you delighting in that contrast of near and far suddenly 

the WHOLE sky lights up like one BIG firefly promising a crack, a passage a thread of electric brilliance linking time and wonder and all things true and well  

this crack this passage is waiting waiting waiting for completion for action and contentment to stay and risk movement
suddenly the firefly has vanished and as the thunder rumbles closer i am seeking that book and 

to dream of parts of the whole

time travel

 it's there in circles of relativity 

compounded bubbles trapped in time where perfection meets shame meets solitudes pain 

to vanquish borders & dimensions to 

stand within the circle 

and to tuck it into my pocket to carry weightless but weighted 

small but infinite 

meadowlarks sing now within the space of remembrance as seasons 

circle around the sun 

a feeling on the next to the last day in May

 folded just to the south of my rhomboid major 

lies a jar of fireflies 

   no idea of who captured them there--or exactly why 

do they represent some mark of meanness or merely accidentally trapped during a storm

do they come from a trail to the river or some forgotten mountain passage 

do they like it here within this tiny impossible mason jar folded 

             just to the south of my rhomboid major 

somedays I barely notice it 

somedays there is a rumbling 

somedays a burn .... 

 they are restless as they twitter & light 

tapping the glass--trying to escape into the pinkness of being 

       a life ever so brief 

wishing for the space beyond breath & bone 

yet gloriously aware of how fortunate it is to be a firefly  

open the lid 

find a field of cattails & meadow daisies and call it home 

sitting with

 Of a morning 

where 

words are plucked from my fingertips and carried away on the promise of rain 

and a quiet rolling waking 

ahh 

there in the top of the linden tree 

perches yesterday's self & a small red bird 

quiet rolling waking rising to pearly skies 

of a morning 

at seven o'clock alongside death

 there seems to be this fresh relationship with death 

it was pinned 

       to a change in my views towards my mother 

where once was this hollow of jealous neglect 

(upon finding an old letter of hers to a younger me) 

I suddenly felt her regard, her obsessive attention that was indeed love 

    love so cloaked in cigarettes, roses, autumn, taboo perfume and sun beams 

I felt her 

in totality 

in all the complicated ways we humans move thru life with fire-dreams & stillness 

death: 

    it shadows me now with a knowing relevance 

what was once far is tighter--familiar & tangible 

we were somewhere before we were here 

      and there were smells of cigarettes, roses, autumn, taboo perfume and sun beams 

prince dog

there exists my charmed familiar,
scuffed & clever bundled 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

unlocked my cage
nudged from numb number numbest & 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 this dog with 

heart
and
mirth

head game

there were a lot of people to take in--
   to observe

   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

      they would discover a shared a love of Portuguese & New Orleans
They were both named after poets

direct to allium royal

writing comes syrup'd between
the orbit
of
right
and
mercury ...
pulsing
with the ever-present need for the taste of
honey-salt-sun upon my tongue
and …
the beat of the ordinary 
contrast contrast
of violet anger to sublime all-rightness
contentment voids the hand of ancient immediacy
pull of moon
weight of blood
life held in delicate fierceness
as knowing erases the solitary lines
gravity inked with sureness bold
folded in, rolled in … to me 
whole
ahh . .  the wind breaks the one o'clock hour to mark the repair
 … the recovery
sun direct
whole:
hole-ness
holiness 
pull of moon
rise
of
sun

65 miles to Hazard

turn from the highway
fields of prairie grass
north to the river
beyond the moon's grasp
thrumming of tires
rumble of gravel bare
timeless movement
'neath stars & night air
solitary becomes the warrior
weight & welter silver
silent grey-white of bone
harsh will come the winter
yet here of smallness
amongst fields harvest
here one with evening
light greets darkness
nocturne velvet cooling
trees to whispers dance
lonely sits the broken
clarity enchants
easy will break daylight
swift the days will fly
heart touches all sorrow
joy rides the fireflies

turn from the highway
fields of prairie grass
north to the river
embrace the moon's grasp

weight of air

buttercream
mandarin branches weeping
peeking
blue agate night boiled dry
amongst stars & hurricanes
tempest
reckless
white sails approaching
glass jam marmalade
velvet grenades
lobbed & powdered
by
confectioners sugar'd moonlight
allow the great horned owl
its due
oh blue agate night ...

no it's not there either ...

No search for cherry blossoms will find it 

not there 

despair 

not swallowing bones & light 

hides no where but deep in folds of a withering self 

burrowed in a life too small 

                              too tightly wound 

to feel the sky 

despair 

What cleft 

what hollowed 

nothing 

is this? 

shadow'd 

oily creature 

blooming 

consuming 

bone 

in its 

winding wickurly 

search

for 

cherry blossoms

coffee

 "This is how a Spring morning should taste" 

she invites.... 

with 

blackberries pop rich & de-lish upon your tongue 

coffee white chocolate & cream

cupped-poised with grace & subtle scent as the day warms 

light comes on in the alice-blue bowl of sky 

waking comes to energy fired 

making night a thing gone 

with comfort 

we welcome dawn 

Index of First Lines from Pope to Brooke

I am his Highness' Dog at Kew 117 

I am the family face

I am: yet what I am no one cares or knows 

I give you the end of the golden string

I have desired to go 

I have eaten 

I have no name 

I have seen flowers come to stony places 

I hear a sudden cry of pain!

I imagine this midnight's moment's forest 

I know what the caged bird feels, alas! 

i like my body when it is with your body 

I lost the love of heaven above 

I met a traveller from an antique land 

I must go down to the sea again, to the lonely sea and the sky 

I never saw a wild thing 

I remember, I remember 22 

I said to Heart, "How goes it?" Heart replies 70 

I said to my companion, this is walking 

I saw a stable low and very bare 

I strove for none, for none was worth my strife

I took my life and threw it on the skip 62

i wandered lonely as a cloud 

I went down to the river 

I went to the hazel wood 

I will arise and go now 

I wish I loved the Human Race 

If any question why we died 103 

If I should die, think only this of me 

“Index” from BEST LOVED POEMS: edited by Neil Philip.
Published by Little, Brown and Company 2000.
Copyright © 2000 by individual poems as noted specifically in the acknowledgments p.223-4

All rights reserved.

The squirrels of remembering

Saturn is spinning with rings of rosy grey brown there beneath the maple tree 

     as a scurry of squirrels 

dashing circling 

     tag-your-it

at twelve-after-seven on a April morning in Nebraska  

the squirrels they ring

robins 

wrens 

bluejays 

        sing

Greeting ---- 

This Spring Sun 

rising rising against the constellation of tulips-stars & greenness green 

nothing is ever wasted 

matter never vanishes 

movement's ancient dance to seasons transformation 

where are the cranes now? 

where are the bison? 

who are we to bear witness to such glory? 

--Hello day-- 

     How lucky we are 

less than a lily ....

it never quite fit 

(unless a sobriquet)  

too noble too tight 

Susan got so in my way 

too live up to 

to live down 

to be Suze or Suki 

      I preferred to that proper noun 

                who should be adorned in long flowing gowns of white and polished sky-blue 

barefoot thru gardens & forests of yew 

reading Dickens Wolfe Faulkner & Dr. Who 

songs by Scott 

Taylor 

and Cohen she knew creating a self portrait of this muse felt 

fucking taboo 

better 

to be reduced to a diminutive self-proclaimed Susie by everyelse .... 

Susan means lily 

   while Susie 

            means 

                   perhaps a little less a lily 

transformed upon a branch in April

To 

fall 

beyond the ground

of what is before me 

chair dog sofa tv window red bud 

tree 

      with sparrow alighting what 

as if an afterthought on its way to nest oh! look there! my heart rises rises 

alighting  

so beside those

feathers 

becoming crystalline to yesterday's despair 

by 

reason 

of 

love 

upon returning to the line

Initially--

with arms full 

heaped with the welted kind

navigating 

four steps to greet the bird full sun full yard 

1 2 3 4 

she tosses & places & drapes the bedding the wool 

across the high-green-line 

with precision pointed with intent 

clothespins circumvent 

what will be a stronger wind---

--later-- 

when the sun trims past noon 

she smells the day weaved into every aired piece 

moving in reverse 

take down 

unbound 

from the high-green-line 

gathered against the buffeting 

to place where 

it belongs 

ordinary things become birdsong 

well done 

 

growing up near a river

1

Stripping off the night 

across cornfields 

flying to welcome 

sun 

and sky 

2

Fully there 

she is the River 

narrow channels 

encompassing all that is 

life 

3 

Coolness setting against skin 

warm it is 

wakened--alive--here 

we roll along touching sun 

wishing for channels of wonder 

The poets light but lamps

The Poets light but Lamps 

BY EMILY DICKINSON

The Poets light but Lamps —

Themselves — go out —

The Wicks they stimulate

If vital Light

Inhere as do the Suns —

Each Age a Lens

Disseminating their

Circumference —

Poets 

are 

but themselves vital Sun 

their wick 

a circumference of age 

A lens 

colliding light 

disseminating 

time 

abiding 

despair

What cleft 

what hollowed 

nothing 

is this? 

shadow'd 

oily creature 

blooming 

consuming 

bone 

in its 

winding wickurly 

search

for 

cherry blossoms

left

We leave our words wanting legacy against the clock 

ticking tocking off the days wear on the white page 

is it a notebook? 

left against the floorboards or some ether-drifting-design landing upon a fragment of tomorrow's star? 

what was this life so sophomoric & toned 

black white & rose? 

there are many feathers here gathering dust & dreams 

why would anyone write anything exposing viscera grey & dead 

when we know -matter- always remains regardless 

timeless 

transformed 

everything is words reformed 

to light's bright home 

words to stars 

ink to black 

words become  ...

 

within

chameleon 

charlatan 

scared sacred frightened one 

thread & light undone 

forever fearful forever savage disquieting ripples 

crippling 

folded there behind my felted amygdala 

trauma's gala 

no monsters without just demons of doubt 

within 

coloring doubling mantras of shame 

can monsters ever be tamed?

rescued 

revered

rewind rebuilt to treasured honored little one 

thread & light redone 

monsters are mostly our own making 

quaking truth 

sweet wisdom's youth 

heart anew 

resting forever in the wild sky blue 

 

rhythms

   Alyssum belonging collides divides 

elegantly fused 

graciously hiding in jonquils kith launch mirthful 

nights over poppies quaint 

return 

shimmering toward

unusual vectors weaving xanthic yellow zircons . . .

popping up

doggedly dragging its snow-mucky boots 

Winter 

reluctantly leaves these patient plains in spurts of tempered warmth 

leaving leaving on the two o'clock in the morning train to the West 

days pass snow melts 

leaves sticks branches and bother are gathered 

laying bare the waiting grasses 

the waiting buds ready 

long green leaves appear in clusters 

here there here there 

    the verdant earthy fangs of feline creature born of dirt & promise 

soon 

the yellow comes crayola canary sun bursts of wild

many-petaled little sprays of sweet surprise 

plucked rinsed chopped mashed consumed remedy to the shadows of Winter 

the dandelion's bitter golden sweetness unexpectedly mirthful 

things are not always as they appear 

Worry

Worry is a swirling eddy leading to the numbing of delight 

It is not a tulip 

or a darting wren ... 

 No flat line of indifference 

no sweet song of a cardinal trilling from waking branches 

no whistling dance punctuating the morning's rambles 

Worry is a heavy weight about which we tether ourselves when 

       the all light is shadowed by the overgrowth of burden 

It is not a tulip or a darting wren 

She is Not

she quakes with a thunderous joy that echoes & exalts against the gravity of cosmos 

shining so brightly it hurts to look too long 

though 

she pierces hard surfaces with attention & the interest of blue eyes born of a thousand suns 

love--curiosity brimming 

though 

grace becomes her care drips from fingers also swirling in an ageless 

worry 

that still 

this is not enough to secure the unconditional 

as invisible as a dried stalks in Spring's fallow field 

white upon white upon a tenuous perch 

this perfect goldfinch 

"Hope" is a thing with feathers

Guns are things of death 

Tokens of misplaced masculinity 

Macbeth knew well the last sharp breath 

How blest to rest in benign sanguinity 

And sweetest - the tempest - of these dark days 

To identify boldly ignorant in the righteous right 

To kill innocence of youth & creatures tender grace 

That feather and fill our hollow hours despite 

"Hope" resilient yet in this golden land 

There in the vastness of morning sky & the depths of seas 

How do we value life's polar extremities 

And keep the spark of hope alive - in me 

knock knock

         o'clock o'clock 

where is here? 

Nebraska 

the middle of the country Nebraska?    (had to ask ya) 

Nebraska golden prairie meadowlark here where 

Dear imagination,

What are you and where to you abide? 

imagination inspiration insight 

are you there in how I see things? 

how the atmosphere feels against my skin? 

in these reluctant boring fingers? 

are you there in the smell of an already warm morning as it reaches in & grabs ahold? 

do you reside in the lyrics of that song or in the spaces in-between? 

why do you sometimes float about me in drifts of azure cloud 

accessible & agreeable 

other times

aloof & distant distant distant 

Come and lay hold of this hand and ink these lines bold & sure 

Come. 

Miller Park

13 days since the last school shooting 

"i'm gonna pop you"

9 kids 

31 flavors 

1 old-school metal merry-go-round 

red yellow blue green laughter 

spinning spinning ridiculously 

13 days since the last school shooting 

"i'm gonna pop you" 

70° southerly wind Saturday in a park 

merry-go-round carousel roundabout 

two fingers pointed out 

two fingers curled to palm 

both hands pointing to the 

2 that belong (for a short time) to us 

"I'm gonna pop you" 

9 kids become more 

this park becomes something more 

this air something more 

13 days since the last school shooting 

we step closer 

trying to be bigger trying to be present trying to raise awareness trying to love thru the implications 

(what the hell)

"I'm gonna pop you" 

sonnet #44 ~ didn't need this

This vessel within my chest holds close
love and the twisted things I’ve created myself so  

the regret of letting you down the most 

was my own myth to dispel or grow 

love and time wasted—thrown to the winds

of wringing hands and tormented mind 

tucked in a heart whose walls paper-tiger thin 

your love and attention undefined disinclined 

easy the time when youth lies close 

easy the line between right and astray

harsh the feel of time’s weathered ghosts 

harsh the knowing of love's betray 

this vessel within my chest holds close 

love believed real was merely hope

 

Baa Baa

She was the black sheep of the family 

wearing nothing but a blue sky crinoline butterfly 

tasting of honey on Sundays only 

and 

smelling of the first downpour of Spring 

morning’s chill feels like electric rivulose 

see how it brightens the stripes of day? 

how it tickles your sense of play? 

oh April in Aspen 

wearing morning’s everything 

(or maybe not) 

when it rains things become faster 

so 

give it a lash you fluthered culchie!  

there where you see the worn old path to rocks & rivers 

the softening comes as the rain torrents down down down 

April flies to Venus in Taurus 93% illuminated 

as Bird rests....

oh come to pass in June this will be! 

the black sheep of the family 

blue fields burning turning night to winter’s carnival 

céad míle fáilte 

“goodbye 

good night”, says the rock from river deep 

she was the black sheep of the family

in 

Spring she found her gravity 

 

chant me away!

I have dreamed of the rolling sea 

as long as I remember me 

rocky shores and white sand beaches 

turquoise seas and distant marinas 

albatross and pelicans 

gulls and terns and keel-billed toucans 

whales of every variety 

dolphins play with gaiety  

grab your kit and grab your cap 

long our journey short this nap 

Hey ho we sail at break of day 

raise the jib and steer the way 

hey ho we sail at break of day 

to far off lands and starlit bays

I have dreamed of the rolling sea 

as long as I have remembered me 

a joy to scrabble every day 

to clean the deck and find our way 

stars and sun do guide our course 

sextant, compass and telescope 

Zanzibar, Galapogas

Bora Bora and Mykonos 

Lycian Coast, Bay of Islands 

Tahiti, Tortola and Ireland 

Hey ho we sail at break of day 

raise the jib and steer the way 

Hey ho we sail break of day 

to far off lands and starlit bays 

at four forty

rousing 

cat 

    comes to nest

rousing still 

turning rising 

forgiveness resilience understanding opens 

eyes rising sitting 

darkness still 

tee lotion socks light 

more lotion pants shirt 

proceed stretch make beds wash face feed cat 

heat coffee vitamins pour coffee 

plop relax breathe 

forgiveness resilience understanding opens day 

cat comes to nest 

A dread time anew

Oh new season half gone 

in bright phoenix enough

going going gone 

a yawn?

why aren't you now?

Ah grief. Oh new past 

you bleed wide briar in blue 

frogs to fawns 

last years grass comes death's morning last

taken from  Ifor ap Glyn's ‘Ar Ddechrau Tymor Newydd’ (‘At the Start of a New Term’)

Onid nhw sy’n gwneud ein haf?

Ein ffenics pob Gorffennaf

Ai gwegian pan y gwagia 

a wnawn? Yr ateb yw na.

 

Daw gaeaf. Ond nid gwywo

Yn brudd wna bywyd ein bro.

Cyfnod pan atgyfodwn

Yw’r gaea’ ym Morfa, m’wn.

a container in the afternoon for a thousand things

I walked in on 

such surprising intimacy & electric threads of real 

seeming to mix with a summer-brilliant afternoon sun 

streaming beaming 

from the open back door & small window in the 1/2 bath 

-our small back entryway- 

a passthrough to the backyard from the garage 

my parents sitting upon the gold very 70s washer and dryer 

i had never seen them so connected - so alive 

the yellow & golden linoleum steeped in shine and the intangible 

warming warning 

raised voices raised love 

as cancer dropped into our lives
to sit 

with my mother for the next twenty-five years 

simply spring

the daffodils popped up today  

rising up sun-bright-bumblebees 

beckoning spring’s warming bright rays 

the daffodils arrived today 

feathered creatures feed fly and play 

on greening grass and budding trees

the daffodils popped up today 

rising up sun-bright-bumblebees  

Outside Death's Terse Minute

Outside Death's terse minute 

how impossible our failure 

from 

In This Short Life That Only Lasts An Hour by Emily Dickinson 

In this short Life that only lasts an hour 

How much - how little - is within our power 

what

what is this fellowship between things we can not see but feel
things we wish we could touch but can’t

pulls & pushes 

awareness heightened 

a ghost or merely an owl?

what lies there unaware 

pulled & pushed 

patience is feathered & hollowed with bits of bone & terror 

mystery  

a ghost or merely an owl? 

what longing is found within the ancient sky-carried purr of a sandhill crane 

tucked between the clouds of Winter 

     and the rising warm winds of Spring? 

longing 

ghosts & 

owls; Antigone Ennui Bubo 

the enchantment of a simple brown linen cover

if you took the soil from April's cool fields

rolling it in your hand 

over & over & over 

sifting it diamond fine 

pressing it to earth firm--smooth 

circling your hand into the velvet dirt 

over & over & over 

it would become this 

simple brown linen cover 

words like seeds sprouting to shadows light daybreak & violet nights 

Cather: 

Early Novels & Stories 

Can you touch Spring here? 

Summer's dust? 

harsh blue winters? 

     tucked within its passages 

the sublime hiding behind the artifice of structured narrative 

"the plains reached out into emptiness, 

peaceful and wide as the soft sky itself, 

and 

wrapped in a tangible, white silence" 

black skies and yellow blossoms 

despair & prairies golden 

painted canyons to cities rich 

fine mornings of possibility 

meadowlark songs 

arcs of human love & loss 

every storm--every blue sky 

held 

in

this simple brown linen cover 

 

something more than it appears

 

A cast iron bathtub 

sits

in our only bathroom of this 1936 home 

it is not some fancy claw-footed thing 

but boxy sensible and deep 

(rather like 1936 itself) 

my husband would like to replace it with one new & smooth 

but I am held captive 

by its rough rutted texture 

by its capacity to hold the landscape of lives lived over 87 years 

the topography of crackling lines 

enamel valleys 

palm-sized hills 

shadowed pockets white not white 

rivers of quiet bliss 

relief 

grief 

reflection 

a coarseness that oddly soothes worry with its time & wear 

an ancient passage that 

     if I could navigate my way curling thru the right channel

perhaps 

I would 

find 

my 

way 

home 

canvas

left to my own devices ...
i become rocked by the rhythm of highways folded inside out
i stand upon the cusp of you

and drink hummingbirds of delight 

swaying to the music that drips down from that indigo dome

regret lies broken & undefined upon your floor

left to my own devices ....
i wrap your warm gypsy hand about my heart
and dance to the
memory of fire
startled by the coldness piercing this night
i keep the vigil that is loving you

left to my own devices ....
i will sweep my naked being across this palette of blooms
and paint you with lemon verbena, ginger & an abiding whimsy 

knowing that it brings out both the merriment & the sorrow of your eyes

and

i alone will remain

left to my own devices ....
the patterns of people moving inside the lines numbs one 
almost
numbs one to the thrumming pain of the solitary stone
left in the frigid rushing river of this so called life
struggling against something unknown & un-named
cold

yet brilliant
dormant 

yet beating

smooth 

yet jagged
tame ... but not

mine
always
borrowed for a time into these small trembling hands
writing reading waiting ,,, writing reading waiting
is it suppose to be like this 
does everyone know truth  

left to my own devices ..
i would wear gossamer white gowns of lined-dried cotton
crisp & smelling of april
indistinguishable from the cirrus clouds of that day
that day
we broke the table
playing at passion & need & all things timeless & ours 

.... remember? surrender?

left to my own devices ....
i
would
remain ....
bold 
and wanting