From the Bathroom Window

The old hose ran through it like a river
creasing the meadow grass of the back back yard
blooming wheat weed like last year’s candles
and a butterfly took root on the smallest pale flower
weaving light into the movement of air.

I am little and climb on the clothes hamper
to see the acacia tree
for it is spring from the bathroom window
and the yellow is like a smudge of joy
caught within the plum’s prolific fragrance  
and I clamor for the time of bare feet.

Flutter flap the sheets are sunning
and mother is a flowered skirt that twirls
although I don’t think she did really
except only in my gypsy feelings from this high place
looking down on her arms bare then and brown
a clothespin in her teeth and the wind her sail.

Was safely far upstairs hanging out there
as if I could see secrets
little dart of blond brother grim with starched legs
and some old dusty car with running board
posing there on the oil slick of the driveway.

It is so like a photo
what I've captured here in mind
from perhaps a Sunday of a long ago April
where the creak of the porch swing
the steady rhythm of it like time itself
is following me or has stopped long enough
for the click of the shutter.

For My Mother

Marian
     

She left her mark within my cheekbones
as sure as summer her shape is mine
I even think within the lining
of my heart she left her sign

The shaded place of back yard peace
like open book is where she stays
sometimes she is in the humming
of mourning dove upon her grave

I see the skirt of many colors
circle round her sun tanned legs
I see her reach across the chasm
place four leaf clovers on the page

So fragile is the lip of time
that death has left upon my heart
in the evening dwells the perfumed
evening breeze her fragrance’s part

Gather round her all the wild flowers
oceans place her in their fold
captured are the star night feathers
that fall upon her heavenly stroll

I see her in my mirror smiling
she shades her eyes within my own
and in the sand of summer’s footprints
she is not walking all alone

Dawn Comes Dog Day Wars to Evening Peace Rightly

Quiet the morning takes the birds to sing
and strings the leaves a fallen
in sound of autumn’s approach and more
the cool is coming through some door
within the sky a change

Walking the Precious sniff-a-long good leash
along the path so often ours  
another sound tore the air with sudden rip of fabric
unto the fur and gentle ankle bare it gnashed
a surprising growl and teeth attack

A dog with black lip curled back
leashed to terrible
the back gate come loose
in ripe voice of rage it screamed
at us a peaceful walking

Avocado torn in mock toss of thought
too smashed and gone the green away
into the angry gravel I cannot throw
or find a weapon save in me
though in fear I hear the crunch
of teeth and slash to air
I cry my louder thunder

Hold the safety breast-side carry
not torn oh wag come shelter
like some wild woolly alpha song
I hear the heart a pound then kick
and see how I am strong

Dog follows us with a lonesome war
my back I turn and growl me too
I’m holding reverent good I say
along the alley home don’t dare
disturb the place where we abide

Come afternoon
the very same of day
a tarrying with some friends
with a gracious lick and saunter
came another smile so gentle dog to yard
with playful good that even the Precious-good-leash
came from off her doubt and gave good chase

and the sky came dark though lit in me
was the warm again to good-sleep
 

A Conversation with a Tree

Wings of light,
free, not tethered to the bend of rock,
I hear a sound like clapping and laughter
and running tap shoed feet.

A shadow pauses on a rock,
I touch it with my own.
It is a tree of questionable name
but green just the same
on this hill
where I thought black stubs only remained.

A shadow is proof of substance,
I tell the tree,
with all this ethereal sound and light
proof that you and I are real.

Folly drawn my love, the tree replied,
the blue is always changing.
Now it curves upon the mountain
not held tight against my breast,
see it take on gravity.

I see, I say to tree.
So many places hurt now gone
like shadows on the rock now turned to sun,
and caught within the memory
a tree becomes a song.

Circles in the Garden

Circles move in the garden.
The flower folds into death,
seeks the ground and covers the warm earth,
molding with the leaves
swept from the tree onto the path,
making room for the new bud.

The strawberry's sunny face turns red,
the sweet pea is perfumed
the honey suckle sweetened
as the circle moves
and the end becomes
the beginning.

The flower
nipped in the bud
dies slowly,
coloring the room,
singing a heart,
joying the dancing boy and girl,
catching the girl's hair in the color
that sparkles her eyes.

As the sun moves into another rising,
flowers open to beauty
and close to death.
In this fantasy of time
a young girl strips the petals
from the daisy of her youth
and one by one drops her innocence
and opens into a woman.

A rose blooms
into the fragrance of a boys' desire,
and every breath
quickens him to manhood.

The flower lays tangled
in the memory of years,
pressed against the pages
of time, it waits
and grows a memory.

If a flower is plucked
by some raging storm,
its seeds will set another bloom,
its petals will enrich the ground,
and nothing will be lost or forgotten.
In spring new flowers will color the hills,
and from a mound
of plain, brown earth
life will return.

On the Third Street Promenade, Santa Monica

It was Saturday afternoon
on the Third Street Promenade
and it seemed the whole world
walked those three blocks
in the Santa Monica sunshine
wearing their coolest colors
skimping in slender ease
well muscled shirtless and looking
long smooth legs in shorts
flowing glowing youth
or deceiving time
with argyle socks and white deck shoes
thongs and sandals and dirty bare feet
pushing shopping carts
eating the soft pretzel prize
trash can saved
elegant salads at tables
that slithered out onto the sidewalk
cascading fresh fish
French fries and white wine laughter

A mime held a crowd at the corner
telling of the heartbreak
of a butterfly
in long fingered grace
his body was made of liquid
it flowed and rippled
and his face wept wings
the corner of people paused
and watched amazed
their children quieted
Vivaldi played and it was like
the story was the music

A boy of eleven played
a sweet guitar his fingers dancing
his face straight and severe
as if he was gone and only his fingers
understood the need to play
play until the pennies became a meal
though all he wanted to do was sleep not eat
just sleep and dream of football
and kicking the guitar across the field
hear the loud thump it made
then the shattering

his face eased out an expression
that looked almost like happiness

The Reverence

Remark
the dripping rain at night
upon the back of an old trash can
sound bites    I am
percussive proclamation
of hearing
right


In the morning
like jewels the grass and leaves beget
a thousand reflections of the sky

who cannot believe in that

The air is fulsome filling flight
of birds who watch the water swell
and wait until first light
the serpent's slither silver
slippery delight of catching

Oh the weight of waiting is sweet
as time ticks the clouds closed
and the wind wipes the sky clean
filling space with spirit air
there where God sleeps

Within the patterns of the broken fragments
of light reflected in corners and doorways barefoot
even crushed beneath the raging breath of earth
almost cursed      we are blessed