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

vokzal

What is it that attracts?
that pulling together of fragments:
moths to flame
hands to hearts
ink to page 
polarized metal
butter to knives 
skin to skin
eyes to the garden of possibility 
tetthered 
to 
aubergine rye-whiskey dreams
the torn edges of leather coats
and
childhood gardens
a myriad of particles collide in recogniton 
something shared 
something desired 
gestures seem innocous
thrown down as carmine on leaves 
and borealis wounds 
a minutiae of fluttered moments hanging breathless
the plethora of pleasure gleamed in the capture 
intellect to intention 
light to shadow
close to open 
wings to weather 

magnectic north 
lies in the curve 
of you 

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