Sunday, February 1, 2015

Hello February





Welcome to my life this day is blue
and I have learned a thing or two since last we met
though snow lays grounded in some places tease
the dappled sun in me feels blessed and pleased

Don’t try to freeze me till I break
I am most sure and filled with light
even in the night I dream of lavender wings
in joyful reminder that I no longer ache

She decided long ago to go
and I've mourned   my love to show
for many years I looked at February
as a month of fearful tragedy
now I see grief as a learning tool
one must pass through like any school
and I'll no longer show my love with sad
but rather in understanding love is glad

How about this
I let February be a place to see
a new flow within my stream
where loosened the rage of loss explores
the rippled lake of Evermore

not because I have forgotten Michelle
but choose to feel her love's warm spell
all the time

Wednesday, December 31, 2014

A Walk With the Clock






Tender torn our feet all walk this path
For the street is dense but made of glass
And how it shatters if you trip and fall
It breaks like speed bumps on a freeway fast 

Alone each moves along times fragile dock
With time though blurred veracious and so steady
If you jump it waits just up the road
With its magic pocket opening ready

Ease me over the rim of this feared place
Bring me the grace to read your open face
Don’t try to hold my youth within your arms
truth tells me that a lie is so embraced 

Lover take me in your sweet delay
Usurp the movement forward to that place
Let me steady be in tide that takes
Each grain of sand to sea without a trace
--------

Thursday, December 4, 2014

Close up of Napa from the 101










Wait past the redwoods of the morning mist
the smoke of chimneys rising and caught within the gist
the unseen force of air is there and the repair of boulders
holding in the fall of land so saturated its true


Behind the wire fence stuck with bags of plastic
taking the breeze with sound of modern elastic
on a stage the soldiers upright and still
are tethered to the stake their arms reach up the hill

I watch

Them protect the clumps of yellow mustard
with their ready   can’t wait to be wine
and if you stop for a minute you can hear
the pouring of the sweetest tease of vine

No  cannot stop the day is fast progressing

I am zip tied and back seated certain
that if I look away someone will pull the curtain
the trees and telephone poles are fast by my eyes
and along the curve a cow misunderstood why

and then

the slope of the hills with green so rain induced
that a large fingernail of dirt fell for proof

and the city is so vein across the bridge it’s glass eyed watch
ripples within the ocean water a half past sunset clock

so seen the going home is treat of passing time
with someone in a different place with eyes asleep not mine

Sunday, November 9, 2014

I Would Explain the Sky






There are so many big things,
and yet I squint
and catch some small winking
just waiting for explanation.

I would explain the sky,
yet one small star holds me
and whispers of shadows
that stars make
on night sky’s dark plane,
and the music in the void
that causes angel’s to weep.

It whispers of treasure
and to imagine an opening
where brilliance falls all around
like marbles gay and melting color.

There are so many dusty roads
and this one time I found
a dull stone
shaped like a heart,
not perfect but obvious,
and it enlightened me
and quenched my romance
in a perfect minute.

There are questions popping all around
like bubbles,
the big hand blows sweet wind,
wild wind, hot wind, treacherous wind;
and I lean into truth
as if I could see it there
with some enormous righteous intent,
displaying obvious answers,
invisible answers,
that I have to walk around
and study with creased and pressed thought.

Because,
sometimes simple seems so complicated.

Friday, October 31, 2014

I Am From

I am From

A slow dance on the shoes of father
into the ocean’s crashing waves
baskets of peanut butter and jelly
and the sand of warm days

The man hiding behind walls
where dimension's invisible hand
weaves lines across a meadow
to my heart that understands

A woman’s still simple warmth
holding porridge with grape jelly
four leaf clovers in her hand
to show me the magic bone from which
my cheek and chin and smile began

The silly shingles of a roof
outside my window’s openness
where I hid my precious things
don’t tell the rain
forgotton now the darning egg
not watching rocking chair take age

From each tiny blade of grass un-kept
as morning glory’s crept along the fence
with continuation circle’s way
regardless of the weather
I came from that kind of day
and midnight's petticoats around the room
ballet dancers as I slept

From the sky laced with wings
gliding on thermal highs and lows
dipping into the pictures in my mind
that grant passage into a poem’s flow

I am from a peacock’s colors
and the sound of doves on phone lines
the cozy keeper of the children of the children
and the soft hand of a teacher

I am from the number of stairs in a house
the timber of their music’s rhythm
the piano of my shouting spirit
and the view from the upstairs window

I am from a grandfather with hair thinning
that loved with unwholesome hands
and sent me wondering into the stars beginning
why

I am from Sunday questions and gold stars
games of canasta and paper dolls
hand made kites and scooters
flapping sheets and running boards
skate keys and Lassie Come Home

I am from lollygagging and that’s not like you
the ice cream man and Saturday Matinee
coloring turkeys with no feathers
and rubber band fights for play

I am from stick horses plum trees
and wrong choices
from late night wetting
dreams of tidal waves
and loud voices

I am from the time before I was
and in charge of every minute’s
layers of poetry and music
and creating myself within it

Thursday, October 30, 2014

The Magnitude of her Unfolding



She stayed out late one day in spring
whispering sighs into the fragrant sky
for she was sixteen and dreams danced
down the dusty weed choked path with her.

It was dinner time
and the air had cooled
but her pounding heart and footsteps
blazed in youthful ardor.

She turned and was bathed in twilight’s glow
floating down a street oh it seemed like floating
of houses stained pink and mauve
against the light of sunset.

She could feel the secrets
that touched her from the window’s glow
of mother’s rocking children’s laughter
and those nesting families touched her soul.

She could feel the undertow
pulling her up into a woman
and she couldn’t say why
she cried into the darkening sky.

A girl is a mighty strong thing
she thought and started running
her bright hair dancing back and forth
and her feet echoing fast go fast.

Her breath felt clean
and her colt legs leaped bursting
bursting was her spirit
on that evening in early spring

the night she glimpsed
the magnitude of her unfolding.

Thursday, October 23, 2014

The Wall of Time ( in memory of my mother and father-in-love)



They are sitting on black and white
stairs made of ordinary cold cement,
their faces turned towards each other.
Her bare legs in shorts are a dancers
and a scarf only partly hides pin-curled hair.
His pompadour turns up as does his mouth.
They are in love and it is 1951.

Fifty years have passed since that day
that hangs with other years in the hall.

The creak of the floorboards calls out the change
in the way they walk in the morning,
changing, changing from nylon stockings to slippers,
work shoes to sensible, eager to tired.
They wear it with pride.
They wear it with contrition.

The basement echo saddens this listener
knowing time gives and takes,
and holds love accountable for each gruff word,
each wild embrace, every I’m sorry.

The skin grieves, cringes and curls,
and they weave lotion into what might seem harsh
until softness sits with them into the evening,
watching the flickering living room walls
lit by television and the steady rise and fall
of falling asleep early.

On her way to turning down the sheets
she touches his hair and says, “come now”
as he smiles into a dream
and she straightens his black tie on the wall
on their 50th anniversary,
knowing it is more than the walls breathing
that makes a picture crooked,
and much more that straightens it.