blue of the soft wild open

blue of the soft wild open
fill bones hollow'd
as violet hides in spectrum's shade
there
beneath the oak branches
illumination softly tethered
--sparrows --
pull the sun into corners cut by time
everything sways to some silent melody
pulsed
pitched
as the neighbor's roofline
steep and treacherous
morning's anthem
to
wakeful rising
to
things empty & seeking

before the darkness of the night 

suddenly at three o'clock

sheets hung on a clothes line
tethered, tucked
drying
rippling
in this august breeze
grasp the corners
bring to your nose
inhale
this fresh-linen-sunshine
inhale
all that is held there
eyes close -- moment held  
perfection found
fresh summertime
ice tea on the back step
dog barks
sounds of children around the corner
breeze rising to the top of the hackberry tree
grass under feet bare
grasp the corners
one, two, three ....
three minutes of this moment

grasp the perfect corners

defining time with color in August . .

I was made to paint this porch

shades of gray & turquoise
melt in the summer heat
trimming in 

beadboard to panes
sweat
and
breath
and
brush stroke
the rhythm moves to the sound of sunshine
as blood & decision pump
in my heart

under skin
hot 

August hot 

sweat at the back of my neck feels like
time turning back
stilling the days
drenched in lucky 

I was made to paint this porch

Sturgeon Moon

storms of earth
and
blue-heron seekers
what fractal fragility lies under
this sultry haze of August nights
here on the prairie grass
where
softness
drips
from thunder
and
the dust of bees
dreams rise from
fire
ice
and
the dance of the moonshine warriors, peacemakers
and
beekeepers
we paint ourselves naked
and
frolic with the monkey-wrenching tight-rope walkers
shifting into love activists
thick & plush in woolen kilts
mighty our rose tongues
and sharp the bite
with softness
secretly tucked
between the blood folds
and
below freckled skin imprinted by sailing ships
and ink trails
replete with sorrow

sorrow

buoyant and lucky
the cursed ones
squeeze that misshapen fractal along the palm-heart-line
and tender it's story
with a circle of stones
and
wild birds

half past fearless

..it will begin today

at four in the morning

on the heels of this full thunder moon ....

in a

softly, sublimely appointed chamber

with 4 walls of padded

pink & orange-paisley-dragon silk

wrapped with ribbons of blue sage

this will bind you both

to this moment

where

in this moment

you can turn it all around

before it's too late

is it ever too late ?

shove aside pride & ego & your worm-hole of doubt

love has faith & fireworks

smells of

cinnamon vanilla & feels like flannel on

a winter night

before it's too late

promise me you will try & burn the candle bright

clasp hands & jump into the fire

love will heal your wounds, mend those scars & brighten your days ....

youth will linger & stay

here, drink this . paisley-dragon nectar ,,,,,

now ....

hold tight and

make of your love a bowl of sweet-secret cherries

forgive all & remind  ,,,,

you will last.

it is never too late ,,,,

the wait . . .

In the fabric of my bones
lies a light within
trying to get out
shining
always waiting
there--
a structure of stone walls, moss-covered & cool to the touch
linens of pale yellow butter soft
mornings of sweet dew-surrender & gasping grasping pause
nights secret & timed
echo'd sounds
and
a warrior's embroidered wait
endless waiting
here lie golden wide timbers of a floor weathered & worn shiny-smooth smelling of ale, salt & wind hands moving, open tendered response checkered pulling, pushing . . serving up a dash of welcome & place
i am there
waiting
lamps glow & laughter kicks me thru to tomorrow a home of stairs & lace
warm against gales of ice & oil bright with the coming of the green of Beltane
there is a home of stairs, lace & a promise of return the sea is there, but i do not gaze
it is easier to look star-ward knowing is gleaned in brilliant vastness

always turning
always waiting

the log walls of this cabin weathered & worn shiny-smooth a hard ride on the open prairie and
the steady climb to tree line, horses - eager & present--feel their breath - pounding & trusting with palomino intent sage thick, smoke curly-chasing
elk & coyotes howl & dance no open, boiling sea here just a river running thru land
days endless & weary wind chasing sky chasing more time meshed in evergreen presence
a flicker of the something more the peace found in the rolling of clouds across the mountain
indian paintbrush, black-eyed susan & columbine star the trail tucked away from expectation & need brief here . . time is brief but sweetly gingered
here

tarry here

until another river winds thru the dream mississippi-wide & meadow-larks delight
dresses fitting tight & candy-like
hot
tight
nothing is as it appears--not this landscape steeped in traditions old, pain & division
not this pretense of affection & indecision
i know i see you there amongst the others waiting for me
take away
running, hiding darting the iron skyscape of interiors cloaked in strength & will
crumbled brick fires alight & games are played to the death
questions laid to rest--do not abide within the shadows
that is the question isn't it?
who exactly waits for who?
what we dream is not linear--subject to charms & algorithms
the silver train that speeds thru the skies illuminates the night
passing from one hand to the next to the next, gradual transportive movement
dance & catch & release
quantum traveling . . across the distance
silver opalescent rails worn shiny-smooth
expecting one, but it is the other who waits at the end
silver sleek sleeper-ride
and
now

i see the house magnificent mid-century modern with glass, light, air & breath
redwood honed fresh - crisp all light all white sleek, new
trees billowing, shifting just beyond these walls of glass blue-ocean sky domed & perfect
crystal-silver clean smells freesia-white stillness
waiting
suddenly glancing down
cracks appear
light escapes
has no one looked here yet?
where is everyone?
below lies
a cavern
a cave
a rabbit hole
a place deep & dark & ancient
endless
stone walls, moss-covered & cool to the touch
linens of pale
yellowed-butter soft surrender

wait 

things are not always as they seem

some days
I wish the roof wild
to be ripped from this house

plucked by twister or azure magic 

leaving exposed the lathe bones & plaster of its construct 

sun streaming in to light upon the broken corners
wind dervishing with no philosophic placement
random bits thrown to the unexpected
inside out
outside in
woken to the thunder of being
each breath miraculous in its chaos
storms