morning darkness
full of birds & stars
a train whistles for the sun
to have loved her differently
with more oranges and browns in the
paint box along with the fine-toothed repulsion oh! how
mirrors reflect merely the red buds in Spring along with the bliss as
blackbirds and fire are indifferent to the thrumming noise
and marbles as I am indifferent
to the copper fear tasting of decayed gardens
and a bit of blood
oh! how joy looks so far away from the jacquard window this morning oh! how
i long for sleep sleep sleep amongst cats and rain
oh! how
to have love her differently
with more oranges and browns would have allowed me to hate her
differently too
rain rings drums ridiculously against the roof as distant thunder rumbles
merely midnight or closer to morning?
awake aware
muddy--muddled—some part of me remains in some dreamscape dancing
ridiculous how the rain sounds like 1962
rising
reaching for redemption
i go quietly silently so as not to walk the sleeping ones
to watch
before windows awash in exacting wet tracings of this thunderstorm
lightening backlighting birch & linden trees
so still so quiet except for rumbly rain & thunder quaking
when i was a child i would find my father quietly silently smoking--sitting with a scotch
in his white terry cloth robe
while storms brewed & boiled in the dark
ridiculous how this rain brings me back to 1962
is it merely midnight or closer to morning?
turning to glance at the time across the room
i discover it is midnight
and i return to the waiting dancing dreamscape
the rumbling birth of stars
great horned owls
trains & leavings
from shadows i linger
wrapped in velvet night as familiar as my own breath
from shadow i linger
wondering how we got here and will my death become a sparrow?
from shadows i linger
observing the blackness of secrets as they lie beneath the linden tree
from shadows i linger
listening to the collide of the cosmos
no cloaks no masks
no labyrinths of glass
heroes sometimes come unasked
between the lightening cracks
one smells of lavender
one of larks
one with feathers one with a bark
pearly white--scruffy & wise
heart of a lion with walnut eyes
one comes dressed in flannel true
(that one is you)!
and the one that comes last
is of sweet golden prairie grass
heroes come as violets & birds
dogs
people
red buds & earth
to see their hearts & know their worth
playing the game from death to birth
the agate secret one carries inside
these heroes unmasked
become our guides
said the button to the thread
i don't want to be led
not tied & buttoned to a shirt
i don't want this bind this place to lie
unmoving forcibly dead
i am the shape of a wheel, the moon & the sun!
able to roll & tumble & run
i wish to be free from the flannel & form
to be a free button
evermore
said the thread to the button i've no wish to bind
my preference is to be spooled, quiet, inline
no needles no task
i wish to hold fast
to my sweet bobbin paradigm
i've no wish to capture
to sew & enrapture
this task set forth from above
i've no wish to pin you down
to keep you from running around
so flat & bound
i merely wish to be wound
'round my spindle so sound
simple & smooth
evermore
the button rolled free
to seek fields & trees
as the thread wound round its wooden spool
no marriage to flannel
no button sewed, bound & facile
just two things that matter now
better apart than before
button & thread
evermore
Celadon
comes the day from mossy dreams slumber
rising rising
movement wicked--articulated back to leg to arm
beholding a day forecast green-grey
thunderstorms forming unencumbered
by night
by this skin/bone collide (how verdant veins lie
upon outstretched possibilities charm)
seafoam turbulence with crocodile rain
falling in artichoke torrents severity
no brevity
but wicked-articulated rising rising waves of nori destruction
coming coming it is
while all i can do is recall pistachio dreams
of meadow & willow fields afar
wake--prepare
meet the storm with an olive branch of forgiveness
celadon comes the day
fern bright will come the morrow
spirits & ghosts
thoughts grey
the hunting kind
trapped in arbors thick
wild with over-ripe acceptance lined
stay away from the yellow
stay away from darkness binding
oh you spirts & ghosts
the hunting kind
no longer a child susceptible to golden charms & wily ways
with precious fruit awaiting ....
with pearls of amethyst & shells a thousand years old
no longer a child hiding from the hunter behind a pink sky
i am the moon
i am night--part ghost part wild hope
with ease
i slip beneath the bell jar
trapped & separate from the tangible
content in the capture
to rest
so tightly held
so highly removed from the churning of the ordinary
this wrapped nucleus of jade silken despair
rest comes as chrysalis
removed to this dome of glass
to await the mandarin & black of flight
and
the sweetness of milkweed
a place space reachable by a narrow silver thread on a Spring morning
when the wind is out of the north north-west at
8 miles an hour
not a cloud in the sky
there i reside
against the open wings of a sandhill crane
on a track for Calgary ....
there will be blue
tied with white ribbons of silk to the cycles of the coyote moon
a place reachable
an empty space to fill in
with all the spare parts; love, metal, matter & might
no anchor here
only feathered things that take you to blue
where
the sky tattoos your light
Take me there ...
to a land between two rivers
of rubles & tremors
lies a fertile valley wide
mountains to each side
tower to a blue sky undisturbed
flowers grow here in the Fergana Valley
flowers grow;
the crepe myrtle
euphorbia milii
china rose & kalanchoe
pomegranate cotton
oleander
trumpets flowers & cotton
four-o'clocks & marigolds
buttercups
tulips
poppies
flower carpets unroll
from the chul, tau, adyr & yaylau
flowers grow in a valley tucked in .... and we didn't know this before this moment
take me there
The Flower Festival of Namangan
remembering crinoline and softness and smallness the first time touching a pony's nose and the sound of meadowlarks
remembering wonder
remembering the smell of freshly mown grass, rain & my mother's perfume
remembering hats and cigarettes and black and white television and death
remembering feeling treasured
remembering feeling invisible
remembering the wide rive rand friends and school days and new clothes, laugher and love and sex and the fire ring of immortality
remembering feeling invisible
remembering death again
remembering independence and the ability to know more, experience more, touch more and that smell of pine trees that follows you everywhere and striving for the unnamed unknown quotient
remembering discovering Boulder
remembering the day I left the earth for other horizons and what that brought, cost, lost
remembering the dead rattlesnake on the highway from Boulder
remembering how I've known the love of the best dog ever and how the hole never gets smaller
remembering coming home to self
remembering the bright power of a sunrise that shines so canary bright as the dark lightens to an alice blue morning and there are two grandchildren waking to hunger & possibility and newness
remembering everything
remembering is a funny thing painted as it is by perception & age & atmosphere and the dreams one has and the sense of being not born on the right planet not born in oneself exactly and carrying the weight of bluejays and crane migration and importance of matter
remembering the importance of matter
remembering the song of meadowlarks ....
in April’s field standing
early this day
pre-dawn grey
a taste of earth landing/waking upon my tongue
yields unstrung
ah! my darling petrichor there you are!
midnight’s spell-messenger evermore
enchanted light
bewitching rain
as meadowlark’s song springs to flight
what sky will delight?
in April’s field standing
Not
too dark not too light
of eagle-winged serendipitous luck the color comes
Pegasus was a Palomino
born from sea & gorgon-snakes for flight
the ride of Bellerophon
Athena charmed ...
sweet spring grasses & strawberry ponds
wide open meadows & cattail wands
red rover red rover
when the cranes fly over ...
flight to fight to freedom to breath
fountain builder
thunderbolt shifter northern sky resider
at +90°-60°
Pegasus was a Palomino
bright -sunlight hits the trees on the east side at seven twelve in the morning
worry - don't fire the second arrow
dew - comes when temperatures drop and things cool
ice - a cool thing
tulips - April popsicles
coffee - nectar of the morning bright
The Moonijim
on falcon-feathered feet comes a'dancing
pink moon born
when storms brew fierce from thermal winds
she comes ...
to bid the prairie grasses to waken from winter's slumber
clover to golden rod
wild rose
bluestem
buffalo grass and wild rye
needle grass
blue flax and
poppy mallow
waken to a moon storm
waken to thunder
waken to Spring
where the day will break in
blue sky
forgiveness
it fills the space between constant whether sorrow or spirit bright
becoming painted with the light of the morning
or darkened by tempest turning
inward looking
random or not so
these bubbles dust the landscape of everywhere
driving in the between
like a train roaring
a thunder distantly heard against the tide of the ordinary
thoughts
spin out
or hold upon a task
a treasure
a tease
a terror
filling the space between this intimate dust mote travels the cosmos
to alight upon the faraway
the forever moment
the tender tendril of leaves outside a window
the fire of some sparked ember
burning
learning
leaning
into whatever world we create
whatever paradigm of shine
a river of consciousness streaming out
cascading between walls & worlds
from freedom or fear
taking on the
colors of
our birth
our death
our feathered aliveness untarnished tarnished
thoughts
thoughts to words to images to moments to light
an axis within
within
all darkness damning
dust motes of thoughts
to light
i stood on a porch with a red floor and turquoise ceiling
looking into walnut eyes bewitched
and chose you
from two
(you who were for her & the one remaining)
(not me)
(i don't need anyone)
my eyes were bewitched
my tongue enchanted somehow
never expecting
i chose you
you who would take my heart out day by day
piece by piece
& wear it as your own
you stood in rain as penance for anything less than perfection
yet you were perfection
never expecting you would take my heart out into the rain
where it would become golden open to
magic
i stood on a porch with a red floor and a turquoise ceiling
and you choose me
along the wide & shallow
cranes come
ballet under kaleidoscope skies
warming winds warming
predictable
precise
two months
now
kettling
foretelling a departure from this golden valley
wild & waiting for Spring
to fly
the day has such a funny tint
to it
pink & grey & pink & grey
no clouds
to the barred owl
perched
watching the pink & grey day come on to light
lighter
watching for prey
any small tiny movement
any small waking
this funny tint day to waking boy
under stars & planet quilted thick
pink & grey
his dreams reflect the coming sky
lighter
watching his own tiny movements
tiny movements toes to fingers to blinking eyes
to yawning
small waking rising rising
pink & grey this day
the cat sits
attentive & curled upon stars & planets
one turn of his silky head
watches an owl perched out the bedroom window
one turn watches a boy rising
one grey
one pink
all his contentment found in this day
pink & grey