pastiche

i bleed the sweet aroma of a hand-rolled 10 year old cigar 
smoked alongside
the 70 yr. old delight of the master
of the hidden tuck, 
the trinket lost,
the lifted skirt 
i inhaled
to the capricious amusement
of 
ghosts
and red velvet elvis paintings
and 
the subtle hand of a god
we are only vaguely familiar with 
draped in turquoise and crimson.
yield
to the demons 
open--inhale
to honeyed redemption
sweet.
open. 
redemption.

The Lake

Pink-golden dusk of late winter
sun skates along the ice of willowed shores
as dusted expectation soars
no time here, no year . .
I am seven
and wear red mittens
the dome of sky swells into air sharp
haunting, inhabiting the corners of circled souls
prairie, wheat grasses and milo
this  lake sits captured--
Lake Minatare

but I believe it Minotaur . .
this ancient mythological water
enchantment frozen into shores ice lace
forgotten corn & the distant deep note of sugar beets
a glimpse caught of some beaded satyr
out of the corner-pocket of my eye
riding wind-valleys over snow-tufted-grassland
rising
to
Ash Hollow
unexplained--startlingly defined
a pale pair of mannequin legs protrude from the blue-blue ice
seductive
weird
haunting
wearing red heels
mysterious glaciered passage

from

pink-golden

innocence

February; sun to blue to snowfields

juxtaposition becomes the crown
dissonant memory follows the jeweled path
round and round
of orbit tuning to the dissent echoes
trees and stars
inlaid there
grooves and valleys
groves and lilies
cool to the touch
we become rivers of beckoning
swift the current reckoning
heavy the weight--the mantle of the misbegotten
diminished 7th to the night
hand to heart
nobility aside dreaming
we float
round
round
loosened
free of gold

gleaming

nocturne #437

where is this landscape
of concrete moons and linen stars?
what galaxy suspends
the corporeal against the delectable
between golden plains of breath
your form lies curled--naked upon a snowy owl's bed
of winter's wait and gather
i am a feather there

pressed
vigilant

your scent pervades the shadows--
whiskey, apples, airports
your perfection belies
your mystery
your fierceness

form transformed rising
steel oatmeal morning
this field between suns
moons and lives
exists beyond rhyme
beyond the compression of moments lost and found
lost
found
over and over again
we are here
between the concrete moons
and linen stars

the dance of light upon snow

suckled
and nurtured to breast & bone

or not

distanced by arms that prefer the sun to the surrender
we adapt
carving initials in our plucked skin to honor the uncaged
we kneel before the altars of amber glances & storybook romances
becoming velvet

brush the nap one way--and it appears
lit
from within
brush the nap the other--shadows deepen
whispering in feathered tongues

survival is dependent upon the surrender in direct measure
to marrow & sunlight
imprints are rendered--pressed upon skin prone
to
the burn of stars as they hang over fields of forgiveness & dandelions

Oh come now the waking breath!
the trembling shimmer of sighs & goodbyes
we burn for the softness
the cradle of arms forgotten

brush the nap
shake out the dust from the cage
sing a ballad to prairie & sky

rise sparrow

rise

of grief and blue . . .

of what purpose is sorrow

and

why are there spaces that feel so ripe with its weight & darkness

are we here merely to discover how to rise

tracing back to our bone the imprint of feathered things

how do we honor indigo stories without taking on the wound
gathering to soul-fast the shavings
molding our vision to see thru to other side

folding & unfolding
gather, release

to experience the quest
and
learn how to rise

on feathered things 

nine to twelve to fifteen

filled you leave me

thrashing in my own skin against my felted nest

cornflower crinoline 

is this 

the pastel ribboned morning 

east to west beyond the maples & oaks 

chill snap chill snap 

quiet neighborhood hold fast to this winter sun 

this tempered land 

hold fast