Ornaments of Love

Now the sun a twinkle gives
while catching dew in morning's sieve
and rainbow over house and trees
are ornaments of love to me

Here early morning December brings
skies cleaned by Santa Ana’s wing
the flowing invisible angel wind
that leaves the air a sparkling

And after night and winter’s chill
brings crisp and clean to the browning hills
I remember well the Christmas tree
and icicles tossed so merrily

Thrown by random hands of four
while laughter sang and fire roared.
My memory stores a family song
with mother on the piano strong

and brother somber hiding there
under the stool where he could share
the movement of the peddles fast
the soft persistent brother task

Then I would sing the carols all
so grand and loud the notes did fall
that candles flickered and gramps woke-up
and father clapped as I stood up

The memory of an angel bright
that graced the room a holy sight
made of laughter and dressed in song
so large with us the family throng

and what had made her presence known
wasn’t wrapped but fully shown
by us together in a place
where love herself saw fit to grace.

Now the sun a twinkle gives
while catching dew in morning's sieve
and rainbow over house and trees
are ornaments of love to me

Music from the Corner of Winter

The wind wakes me with moaning
Down the darkness of the driveway
I can hear it take the trash can
And make it into cymbals

I can smell the smoke of morning
From the sleepy waking houses
And I hear the bushes talking
To the naked trees while dancing

And I want to walk away then
Into the breast of darkness
And wrap myself in whispers
From the leaves upon the sidewalk

I have wondered at the mystery
Of the quiet breath of dreaming
Where it takes me past my pillow
Into slanted mystic meaning

And I toss my rumpled feelings
Back and forth I hear them shatter
They are building up a mountain
That I’ll have to climb by morning

And I feel the lies I’ve spoken
And I know the signs are broken
Yet I move within my memory
Like a sleepy child awakened

And I want to travel slower
And I want to go then faster
So I can’t find all my meaning
It is so far until the daylight

Then I see the creep of fingers
Weaving light across the carpet
And it’s the music that I know
Will take me home

Music from the Last of Autumn

Autumn takes me down
to her place within my backyard
The trees are halfway bare now
with their clothing voiced in child's play
I can hear their footsteps calling
from the castles open door way

The birds still wake at dawning
and the dogs hide under blankets
for the cold creeps into evening
with it’s fingers made of midnight

I can hear the heater’s humming
as the minutes tick through night time
and the part from open window
holds cool breath that hits my pillow

And I want to keep the sunshine
long into the end of daylight
for her feeling on my skin now
is like a new beginning

Where the child in me runs frolic
‘cross the green hills of September
and the water is so warm that
I can swim without my clothes on

And the jumping of the flowers
is like time in spring’s fast forward
across the sweep of window
where the trees are moving graceful

And I want to travel with them
dance along a perfect sky lane
wrap my arms around the swollen
sweetly scented linen

But the minutes tick towards winter
and my fingers are so cold now
I can hardly feel the keyboard
or the toes within my slippers

But still I feel like dancing
Out the open door to dapple
In the playground made of sunshine
And the tree swaying with apples

And to bite and hear them crunchun
is the music from the last of autumn

The Reverence of the Last Days of Autumn

There are so many big things
to contemplate as winter fast approaches.
There are shadows across the lawn,
the black skinny cat that
has fleshed out against the night,
and all those bright and belligerent autumn leaves
that startled the eye
now crunched and blown brittle.
The pomegranates are splitting,
the laden apple tree is almost purged.

There are many weighty questions
to contemplate before the day
treads its cool fingers through
the screen door.
Where are the crickets of summer,
the early morning song-birds,
and the thunderous roar of bees around
the morning glory?

On the lawn the morning paper
is covered with plastic
against the dew.
(The dew is such a small thing to
loom so large and menacing.)

On the front page I know, are words,
words that tell of immense things,
transgression and power,
death and probes,
poverty and chaos,
war.

The walk down the path to pick it up
is tremendous with minutes,
as the big hand of time
trudges on,
capturing, with callous indifference
the reverence of the last days
of autumn.
_____
12/99

A Baby Smiled

When I woke I knew the words were true …
words floating

like the strings of a lonely guitar,
they made no sound…no sound at all.

I imagined how many times this new joy
touched the universe,
vibrating like some crazy music
that has just been composed by the inner-ear.

Give no mind to tears.

They are as true as you believe them to be,
winked the obstinate sun.

The interesting thing was,
it was raining.

To Stop a Dragonfly

On the other side of midway
Thought paints a line
And the mist falls it falls
But it is made of air
Tell me is it really there

If I catch it at burgeoning
Perception slants

It has a sound that you can touch
It is strong enough to hold me
Above my own mirror
So I don’t break in either place

The roar of travel has stopped here
The wings are in my ears
And the mist falls it falls
The end of this is near
The places I have been holding dear

I want to be here in this sideways slant
Locked across the nub of time
Sliding past the dreary dirt
A cup under the flow of stars

But it is not my time to stay
I still have debts to pay and warm wood waits
Holding my place on the grass
Watching the bright of dragonfly stop above the pond
And then move on

Capturing the Light

Blue-green reflection

mighty trees capture the light

above and below

The Weight of the Blanket of Love

                                                           

                  

It is different this year
For the hole is hand stitched
With the thread that I lost
Then re-found and re-fit

And the tear covered fingers
Of hands to the face
Are changing the vacancy
To knowledge and grace

Can you see how the empty
Really waits to be filled
And the fabric of time
Is sewn with heart’s skill

For the sweet smell of sunshine
Still hangs on the fence
Within the lost pages
Of life’s circumstance

So don’t worry my darling
Where ever you are
Is a minute just now
And then gone but not far

Though the road may seem empty
When the skin feels the cold
 The weight of my heart
Is the blanket you hold

--------------------------------------------

http://www.angelfire.com/zine/bereaved/michelleopen.html

For Now the Fern

Pathways and fern-crossed feeling
an everglade delight of day
with voices like music all around
stop along the path and watch the sun
it streams across the air
tatting sky to deep dark loam

How grateful this moment caught
the eye stops
and tells the spirit bless you
under the canopy of whatever the sky
a fern requests the shade you see
though I so love the sun shine on me

Stay this minute now my heart
delight this art of growing old
and knowing something to unfold then on
the dropping leaves will tell
how tomorrow will be more

for now the fern

Lighting up the Past

Light of sunny now

touches ghosts in ancient space

where yesterday sleeps

Covered Bridge Beneath the Waning Light of Autumn

she is sometimes so full of another color
like a season she searches true the minutes
capturing them as they slip sand and wash
into the wealth of the moon and more become

listen to the crashing of her high tide
like forest at night in creep up with the leaves
waiting for the dew all crawl and rustle
she hears one grain of sand shift soft relief

she is wealth of moon and more a ramble
a tree stands with her in the tall of stretch
and scurry things twig her toe in walk along
and jam her sway along the way of best

light is such verve and frequently captured
by the chain that pulls her to design
the falling of the magic fills the chasm
and brings her to a fast focus align

listen can you hear the seasons changing
across her skin she feels it with her warm
and waits beneath the waning light of autumn
for a storm to nudge her dormant ions

Reflection

Long past noon
when the banshee sleeps
and the tall grasses stiffen,
you may find an indentation in the ground
where lovers, rolling and wet,
covered with pearls of sweat
had open-eyed sex.

The earth saves things like that.
It keeps them like marbles and summer wine
until they are warm and green.
Caught against a rock, sun spent,
they will change their color each morning
until the last wind coats the ground with dust.

Who will remember when lush summer lips
begged blossom from a seed?

In the harbor,
far from the loud noise of meadows,
the fog has closed the sky
and muffled the mood of salt.
Even the sea has gathered oil and water
and twirled some forbidden coffee spoon into life.

Can you claim the reflection?

The Coming of Evening and Light

The soft purr of evening is coming now,
across the mountain it weaves its light
and pulls the curtain slowly,
slowly down the tops of trees
still lit with fire, you can see the breeze take hold
of one last stem and then
lost in dim it is sucked in.

A canopy of clouds, lit now by another fire
from streets where people play electric lights
and dance on curbs where rain once poured a river
until the sky was dry;
slowly now the music drifts from open doors
and the white milky sky comes down and touches ground
while the city melts into 10 o'clock,
a laugh sparks one street then two
where you and I and sky gather like old friends,
sleepy and glad to be home again.

Driftwood

Remember when
darling warmed a tongue so new
that peppermint was suave alone
and we kept the willow wet with taste of it

Oh it was so filled up
the ocean of us crashing into life
tearing footprints from the sand
and wearing sun as if summer
was forever and there was no danger
in the sweet warmth of the burn

I thought it came so quietly
each minute's slip come more
until the changing was so loud
the thud of my cloth falling around me
awakened the aching taste of joy

And the memory
of being tossed about in salt and licked
oh the tongue of grit so rough
it took control away and day was turned
and night was sky and dry came so slowly
spitting out sand then taking another taste
again and again

Not the same sharp features now
littered on the beach of time
forgotten leaves raked clean
and yet I touch the change and know
the same magnificence

The Day is Done

Sun in the river
last breath of light is drowning
the day down under

The Room of Chairs

Tell me why you weep I heard
from the quiet space
turning turning where
I see you sometimes in despair
so said the room

a stop and then around again
there a voice a song I longed
to see all mixed up rocking course
within the quiet a discourse
unwept was I in curious glean
to find that dust can talk I clean

now shine is on the arm of rocker
the fragrance of orange a sign perhaps
and I see the smooth of years not harm
and feel the hold of rocking arms

delighted with the wood and grain
I listen lost in past some pain
where girl dark-curled leaned into pale
of how to trust when cushion failed
to comfort stripped the bones now matted
of fabric thin and holes not tatted

Tell me tell me why you laugh I heard
from other side of room
I swung around in much delight the room
fell suddenly into sight
with sound like children ocean tuned
and surf of love swept out the gloom

Then perfume became the air
where the ancient set of time
rocked with me and mother mine
back and forth in wooden boat of chair
her arms like ropes around me there

Tell me why you weep I heard
from the quiet space
turning turning where
I see you sometimes in despair
so said the room

Yearning for Pearls

Pearls,
they must be pearls
on the elegant slide
below a woman's neck.

Pearls,
showering from sprinklers,
tick tick tick
across the nape of summer lawns
where the lip of one small blade of grass
quiets for a moment and welcomes the song.

Pearls,
so precious
they are kept within a rich white cloud
whose cheek lies on the mountain's top.
So unquenched am I with need
to open this liquid treasure,
that, like all things, I thirst
while waiting for the glass to be
fast poured upon the restless winds
to wash the air.

Pearls,
they must be pearls
upon the brow of bronzing man,
so sure of his inside sea
that he attracts a glance from me.
With some magic handkerchief
I'd wipe the jewel made with salt
and lick the curl of inner light
that longs for rain tonight.

Pearls,
could it be,
that rumble yonder in the tree
and take the blood to boil hot on this
sweet summer day?


Pearls,
it must be pearls
I hear within the quiet heat,
aiming for a tree and then a leaf
they quiet my heart to instrument in tune;
then harkening to the sky's perfume so rare
I feel a pearl fall onto my hair.

My Name is Wing

Before the calling of horses
and the driftwood sink,
I had a sky name,
green feathered like the tops of trees.

In my home-can-see
I watched the world awaken
as the shadows lapped up one another
and the branches took form below me.

I opened wings in front of sun
to see myself in shadow
all feathered plume of grace
away from ground and safe
from scurry things around.

That was before cracked crab hissed the fire,
when I was in no hurry for winter.
Even so it came,
for I could see past the dune grass
where there was a dark thing
that slowly stumbled into keep-safe
and broke me, but not for long.

A wing is a fragile thing, yet strong.

Memory slants the sky that way sometimes
and I can see back before begun,
when Wing was a song that I had sung;
then I was a curved line down she looked
with the color of new wood song,
my toes arrows that took me fast
into the peat slipped cool familiar.

It didn't matter the perfect words,
all too cumbersome to worry my song come day,
but in the dark starry cool covered sands of time
I can whisper something forgotten
and Wing comes out to play.

Never Mine

I held you once,
a small miracle
attached and expelled
from the most intimate
part of me,
but you were never really mine.

You dreamed beside
a yellow cat,
flailed your tiny arms
beside a warm mouth of
purr,
soft and unafraid,
each.

You gave no cry
for attention,
small specks of dust
and wee clenched fist
held your interest,
and the clamor of activity around,
absorbed your need.


As you grew,
a map unfolded behind
your green gaze
that passed me
and traveled away
into distant dreams.

There,
you listened and spoke
with many voices
before you learned your own.
There,
time granted you grace
to fill up the space
your soul occupied.

I watched as you
accepted the miracle
of moon and stars,
made things happen
with your hands,
grasped truth,
were angered by deception,
knew love,
accepted failure
and discovered the strength
of your own determination.

I held you once,
a small miracle
attached and expelled
from the most intimate
part of me,
but you were never really mine.

Still, wanting to touch some part of you,
I reached out to grasp your hand
and through some trick of time and mind,
you had become a man.


For my son, Kenric Allen Jameson, on his birthday

This poem was a finalist in the Blue Mountain Arts poetry contest, many years ago.

For Taylor

Who'd think the spreading bark
of the Eucalyptus tree,
holding the heavy scent of lethargy
and darned to the bitter greens of earth,
could feel the gentle pull of hand,
a considerate host?

Even the lustful grape
bends to allow this touch to vine,
already consummated, dripping, gone,
its purple succulent flavor ebbed,
a raisin in the sun, instead.

Dried and bent,
a vine cut back
does not complain for lack,
for though tangled with a lover's haste
then stripped of leaf and warmed,
it is molded into the circle of a wreath,
and has thus, conformed.

Bent of shoulder and heavy shoe, dirt-clogged,
I see how time takes years and leaves the heart.
Each moment casts a shadow on a rock
then moves away without a thought
of kings or the weight of air, even songs
forget the finger picking
but leave the mood of dancing in the dark.

The measure then is how to take a minute
and shape it as a gardener would, within it.

A Question from the Canyon of San Gabriel

Beguiling desert
with fickle fan still summered
flirting with the sand

My hair goes your way
lifting yet holding like stones
within the river

Should I catch her there
small ash among the many
flirting with the sky

will I know quiet
of the damp as evening stills
upon the lasting

-------

from 9-06 with thoughts of Michelle

Aftermath Fishing

First rain made a lake
then shredded cotton ball clouds
aftermath fishing

Past the Sky...for Michelle

I was just a child myself,
unformed and weaving a path of questions,
when you began my motherhood.
How could something so small
make me so big, I wondered.
Make me throw all my priorities to the wind like so much whatnot
until I would never be the same again.

A little girl all screech and vim,
you ran around with plan to twirl a tether
made of gold around my soul attached to you
for all eternity. Now so entwined,
it is you I think of, for you are still the child
who made me wise with the wiles of your smile.

My first, my girl, I thank you for
the growing steps I took to keep you warm,
for taking me past this life on earth
and showing me spirit lives ever and still,
beyond the pale and past the sky
where you still can hear my lullaby.

To Keep the Leaves

I want to keep the leaves
the angry crunch of them
their startled faces lined and puckered
all through the blast of sky frolic
and spill of clouds

into spring with her soft dress
I would sew them
until they became footsteps across time

even now the sky shakes
and fills the air with golden rain
and in a captured minute
I run the walk and twirl my hair
to fill it with my fancy

a place to keep the leaves

Finally

Finally

the fall of rain
creep creep the morning
along the quickening

slow go slow

today from fasting
holds a fortune
call them little pieces of torment
and change
a rag to rage the indifferent dirt
split and narrow crease of sorrow

hanging tree so glory bound dry
golden brown in stages curtained
to the naked almost gone

a cage fast from cloud escapes
the hungry night
and the brittle leaf
the weeping keeps then falls

all grace of mending water
come save day

Past the Time of Picking

Kneeling on the ridge
a flower of a cloud watches the valley,
blossoms of moisture
contained within its petals.
I am in the valley waiting, dry,
yearning for the first rain.
I can feel it nudge my eyes,
dancing in the air
but really, it isn’t there,
as white darkens to dusk then charcoal
and I hear the distance rumble.

I am swept away by ions movement
up past the trees and the canyon walls,
right up to the moment of beginning,
in need for rain, I call.

Feeling ripe, past the time of picking,
I understand the leathered skin of fruit,
and the brave joy of children in the sprinkler,
from the birthing bed
they have grown tall with thirst,
and live straining to hear
the clouds in concert,
consort like patient lovers,
their majesty threaded, puffed and shredded
in the high singing winds.

Clouds contemplate the dry hills,
wanting to touch their tongue to the hard dirt,
to open the river slim of a canyon’s skirt
and lick with moisture this lacking.
Yes, the river will be first.

And then,

A June-bug in July bowed at my bare feet
as I watched the leaf walking that was on top her
and wondered what magic I had caught,
a captured iridescent queen
under dry vegetation's screen,
was the perfect plea, for I could see the dust
upon her wings.

And then it rained like all get-out,
she flew away between the drops,
and the other (me) got drenched
in the end it seems.

First Storm

The patio is dimpled with the play
of fast fingers
performing from the closed sky

the rhythm like a heart beat
on and on

it is shinning the imperfect truth
into just another ordinary

I see now how it is
how the river runs though the alley
and out into the wisdom of the street
daring the curb

so slam the window shut
where dust is still clinging to summer
the changing is timed and cannot be taken back

Running on Empty

Along the parched road of living there was a sign that read, cool mountain stream, first right at the crossroads. I had to get out of my Reverie and walk up close to read in small print, enter at your own risk.

Well, I was torched as you can imagine. My engine had been running hot and I could smell the stench from the need to fill up with something to quench my own insatiable thirst.

I looked at my gas meter and it read (in poetic form, of course),
running on empty,
watch what you do,
another dry mile
and you are through.

I knew how to fix that. Reverie was not all I had. I had a reserve tank of dreaming. I had dreamed my way into many a place and out of a few.

I shifted out of reverie and into dream and turned right at the crossroads where I almost ran over the Assumption family. (Standing with their hands on hips in the middle of the road, they were.) So, I closed my eyes and smooth as silk, Dream took me over their stern mouths and I landed in a meadow, lupine dotted and poppy spilled.

I could hear the sound of happiness frolicking in a splash of passion as I slowed to take a breath, and that was when I saw Future standing before me and turned away.

I gathered Now around me and fastened it with the exhale of my intake and suddenly I was looking out the window at the middle of the day, my fingers were like small birds pecking at the keyboard, the sound was part of my heart and I was no longer thirsty.

I could see my Reverie sitting in the driveway wearing what I was sure was a smirk. :)

How and Why and When?

How and why and when again
I ask the ageless how become
the sky an opening to the whim
of wondering at the window
with elbows pointing out as was before
time backwards the minutes leaking gathering
and finally winking out the door

The dark side falls into the opening
of space and time
light is swallowed only to be spit out
and sound has no echo in the din

There is fast like standing still
and holes that carry thunder
wind empties all the pockets of dust
and blows them all around then under
even lust lays back the skin a song
finding greater meaning there all along

How and why and when again
a child’s fancy listens for a clue
waiting at the window of the night
knowing in the dark it is easier to hear
the answers that hide within the light

The Secret

I was wishing

for the long, warm twilight time

and the moon falling into the silver sea

and you and me.

Instead,

from the top of a mountain

the ridges were rounded steps

that fell away behind me

into a river,

with alder tracing its

curving path.

I found something else there,

perfect with its nudging truth

out of my longing.

It was lit with sunshine

and covered in a coat

of many colors and textures,

then staked to the ground

by yucca spikes

that stood erect

in their blooming hold on death

and rebirth.

There was copper and rust,

burnt orange and umber,

all sown together by the plume

of the gray squirrels tail

that darted back and forth

like a living needle.

I could smell the creosote

where the fragrant ground leaked

as sage in soft dusty green

gave reverence to the air

in a prayer for continuance

that I could hear echo

in my heart.

As I stood there

longing for something,

something that I thought summer stole from me

and would not give back,

something that would never be the same again,

autumn covered me with her quilt

so that I would understand how life changes for a reason

and time spreads

its seeds upon the ground to wait.

It whispered across the hill,

its breath as fragrant as

the sweet peas of early spring,
it whispered this secret to me:

Now is really all there is

and now it is autumn.

Affaire

It was a bright, hungry day
in a parking lot of any city;
groceries and the wind,
a paper blowing within her mind
like time across the asphalt of morning, spoke.

There could be no dowdy
on her pale skin, a-shiver
as the paper stilled for her,
even as her long multi-colored skirt,
like an anxious kite tethered to her rounded hips,
reacted to the air and lifted shadows
from off the crowded ground.

Pick me up, then fold and crease
to pocket’s precious understanding;
like shells, feathers and rocks,
she heard the sky affirm,
fill this empty space with words.

In the Place Where Morning Dwells

In the place where morning dwells
life is dew that touches flowers
reflecting color of sunlight
so splendid in healing powers

High on the cliff of life I stand
where each day erosion changes
trust keeps me from the ocean’s swirl
a fence built from rocks not cages.

I hear the laugh that opens new
in path of spring where lupine turn
it is the song within each breath
soft as the nest a mother yearns

I know the desperate grasping climb
and the willow that bends in grace
beneath its branches sweet repose
is the breeze’s caress on face

In the grasp of withering time
so often I feel like crying
it’s from the grief that’s part of life
I’m learning the art of dying

I feel the still within my heart
it dreams with me in surrender
in search for sound of love's display
a sigh is the magic sender

I can reflect upon this grace
for I am in a wondrous place

Measuring the Passing of Time

The paper tears
as littering wind
quiets and down drafts
a tiny dead butterfly
onto the remnants of
the quiet morning.

Which deadful minute
callously threw it
across the sky
without even knowing its fragile keep
was so balanced there?

The pearl of a dog's ear trembles
as lolling goes into afternoon;
it would seem that nothing has changed,
if not for the door
and the barefoot cement
where the sun passed so quietly
and left a line of time
in the warmth under one broken wing.

Take Me Down

Take me down to curled leaf,

autumn falls, it falls along the edge

and leans from the fence with the warped tomato.

Pull out the weeping end of summer;

its fragrance bites, though sweet the taste.

Take me down into this cool morning,

oh, sun, so layered in rising mist,

and touch me sweatered.

Bare shoulders have danced summer brown

into heat of open fire with a sing along

and I can still hear it echo in the ripple;

but I see grace moving in the rake,

a piece of last October stuck in its teeth,

leaning against the turn of time

watching the sky for the first dance

of the Liquid Amber.

Take me down with flannel sheets

and the window open to cool

into warmth of autumn nights with you.

Sleeping with the Garden God

Into tendril I eclipse and more

Lit to fond with color blue adorn

The sky a dye of time and also magic

Beaming with bees I lay down with romantic



Close my eyes now into slivered moon

I’ll untie each celestial ribbon soon

While night and shadows hold me in my sleep

Knowing we are only in a prison when we keep

Our feet from feeling earth as opening gate

Into the pulse of mighty music’s till

A song from bless of meadow’s lift and still



The stroke of air is changed within this place

And breathing is the beat within the sound

Where peace distributes moisture to the glade

And I pressed to the garden god am made



With the love made sweet in time ecstatic

I'll cover each bulb to cool in time elastic

They'll open green and graceful

Colors blooming from the dirt

The wonder of this pleasure is

This birthing does not hurt

Autumn in my Arms

I can feel it coming now
Like a distant prairie wind
Across the nape of afternoon
In the drowning of a hymn

Played like the chainsaw
On a ribbon in a tree
Touching to the tender
Unarmed heart of me

And I know that there is lightning
And I feel the press of air
I can smell the bliss turned angry
And the opening act of flair

Sing it to me baby
Past the sky I feel the need
For my restless legs are dancing
In my arms your storm can feed

Music from the Corner of Autumn (with thoughts of Leonard Cohen)

The wind wakes me with moaning
Down the darkness of the driveway
I can hear it take the trash can
And make it into cymbals

I can smell the smoke of morning
From the sleepy waking houses
And I hear the bushes talking
To the naked trees while dancing

And I want to walk away then
Into the breast of darkness
And wrap myself in whispers
From the leaves upon the sidewalk

I have wondered at the mystery
Of the quiet breath of dreaming
Where it takes me past my pillow
Into slanted mystic meaning

And I toss my rumpled feelings
Back and forth I hear them shatter
They are building up a mountain
That I’ll have to climb by morning

And I feel the lies I’ve spoken
And I know the signs are broken
Yet I move within my memory
Like a sleepy child awakened

And I want to travel slower
And I want to go then faster
So I can’t find all my meaning
It is so far until the daylight

Then I see the creep of fingers
Weaving light across the carpet
And it’s the music that I know
Will take me home

Rubbing Raw

I think that I fell on the slip side of real
holding the root of something I feel
with the dirt clawing me with decision or drowning
for all that I know I’m not sure who is foundling

Blisters and blemish are up in the sky
and the sound of mad cannons make a pulse that could die
they are groaning and grating in cosmic repair
lifting my voice with the groan of despair

Now the dear shade of darkness is fumbled and warm
to the soft of my pillow I now comfort forlorn
and grow from the meadow within my own keep
where the fall has let down
giving warm wood my weep

To the places that time has made smooth as a rock
I take hold and rub raw with my fingers the clock
for the sounds that I hear have turned grumble to night
and the sweet breathing bubble still holds to its flight

eggplant

Green is green and red is red
let purple fill my arms instead

A Grandmother's Lullaby to the Moon

I feel a connection hold me
to the almost full of moon
following the place I am
lit now behind the tree
and again within the pool

I move too
rocking on a swing
that is tattered by time
yet it holds its movement still
and if I close my eyes
I can feel dirt and sky
and the dusk of evening birds fly

I sing the song of a grandmother
I sing it again I sing it well
to you and you the children
of the teacher and the mother
to the child within me still

Rocky rocky rocky rocky
backwards and forward
to and fro

Gathering briquettes
absorbing the good smell of wood chips
making love
out of an old BBQ and moonlight

I can close my eyes
my grandmother eyes
and hear the song
with the dear swing
that is part of everyone

and the swing just sings along

The Susurration of a Grandmother

Still there is the innocent sky
cloaked and holding in a wheeze
desperate
turning over leaf
licking
until its cement shadow is undone

and for a minute though yet to come
the tongue of Autumn fills my mouth
and releases a love song
within the perfect chamber
damp a slip of almost cool breath

Time opens past the fracture of the screen

Picking up the sound
my own
in earnest taking me up past blue
innocent sky
to hum a thin and delicate true

lullaby

For my grandmother Blanche

Oil and light
down a hill covered with yellow flowers and green grasses

With words you rolled with folly itch skin
and little girl whim
but I was a little girl then
and you were a story

The house sits a splendid thinking giant
looking over the ocean
the red roof nesting in the trees you climbed
your eyes windows

Was this where you first noticed color and texture
I wonder

Then later you smelled the turpentine
and caught it like a virus in your lungs

You could taste it even in your little boat
where you wished the wind would take you
back to your brush

It was part of your hand then

You talked to birds
you see
with a whistle surprised that it should come
from a flowered dress
and a neglected waistline

You were my lemonade
--------------------------


She was silk lined and curled
salt and pepper the trick
Blanche talked to birds
had magic lemon trees
and a pinch of sugar the stir

My legs were too long she said
for the rocking chair
creak the memory resides
still living just over there
waiting for another child

Summer brought the flowers up
in the pond all sober and bright
their lavender like a song
cool across the nether place
of orange popping fish

La la la she was that too
warm in places where I yearned
a comforter I hoped could cover me safe
from someone bent to steal grace
but no she was not looking for the truth
that in his goodnight was my bad dream
and she will sleep forever
not knowing all the words
to the song I sang
---------

The lines etched
across her face
are like a braded rug
made from pieces
of yesterday.
Her fingers tremble now
as she cradles baby time,
the rocking rhythm
inborn
gentles sorrow,
she forgets
the unessential sequence
of events
and calls me
by my mother's name
and my child
by mine,
then herself a child again
waits to be unborn.
-----------------------------

On searching antique stores for Grandmother
I went to find the paint of her
stacked on a back shelf
of some antique of neglected dust
with just the scratched black initials
that were her youth

A canvas of dark stilled to life
like old tomatoes slightly wrinkled
you can almost squash with your eyes
and the musty smell of old closets
where gay colors dream of light

She whistled the walnut tree of birds
until they fell shells of questionable merit
to pry with magic tool on shaded table
a pile of forgotten cribs
the goodness shucked

Could her tune whistle across time
her silk bent around fabric still in mind
she would not remember that she forgot me
in her pale comparison when we were all her child
the young and old of us built on layers
of curly hair and round skirts
legs bitter rooted to hardwood and phonographs
that still crank a tune
and the line of us all waiting
to take our turn

Her cataracts are the attic of my description
bound with words that are made from watercolor
and each delicate wound seeps the orange rouge
of wilted cheeks blurred by time to my girlhood
---------------------------

Holding Hands

The air was fresh and sunlit as it swirled around the Douglas fir. It whipped the towels draped on the railing of the wooden deck. From where I stood looking at the lake, it caught me and undid my hair. I had heard the quarreling voices, each tinged with placing blame on the other’s stooped shoulders.

Time had drained the strength needed to keep the cabin of summer with the lovely little outhouse on the hill. There is no blame to the edge that time softens. He had built it all. On his hands I could see the plan, callused and gnarled. She had softened it with her aproned arms. Many nights they lay beyond the screen, looking at the last ember’s glow of fire, listening to the frog voices echo down the mountain into the cove. Were they holding hands then, in the dark with their youth still visible?

The wind carried his words to me. I’m sorry, turned me to look back as she touched his cheek and smiled. I could see that they were holding hands.

The Fingers of the Moon

The silver slanted fingers of the moon

drizzle light across the plains of cities,

play in the parks and streets

and hide behind tall trees

that wear their skirts high

and drip berries in the spring.

They see the pattern of life is not flat

as they ride on hills and valleys

to dig into meaning,

then wander off

to make magic with night.

Like a child beguiled by sign keep out,

they hide on the other side of the fence

waiting for time to make a place to slide through.

The silver slanted fingers dance

with patterns weaving light and shadow,

pulling berries from the trees

that know the dripping sweet and sticky lick of dark;

waiting for a place to slide through and see,

following the pull toward the other side.

Gather....A Rictameter

Gather

the dark around

night is spilling the stars

as energy keeps growing strong

carrying hope and seeking meaningful patterns

from other searching hearts who know

how love explains,

when words cannot

gather

Dappled...A Rictameter

Dappled
Shadow's color
Slow movement of the trees
The filtering is touching me
With eye's curiously unblinking time
Lighting earth with the shifting wind
Welcome serenity
Always in flux
Dappled

A Canary Watching the Passing of the Sun

In the room the table's heavy legs are folded and tucked. The canary sings in its center. He tells the sun the time, singing to the yellow sash of the eastern curtain. He touches the apple tree drenched with fruit with his ripe song, that's for certain.

"I have no lover but warble true," says Bird, as tree fronds nod wind's rhythm in the dark side of the pond.

"I hold the evening still within," the Pond replies. "The tree's reflection is my eye. The frogs din and the fish cease swim in my shadow water’s song. Come along with me if you dare and see your own reflection cast in prisms care. This beauty is love’s perfection."

Just as morning ends and hits cement with hot, the trees dance away the sky, leaving you and I in dappled light, easing over the roof to night. The fire takes the air in front and sparks it into the crystals slant. Across the room as if in dance, canary sings to lights, like fairies laced with his sweetest vocabulary; forgetting for now the pond out back for in the pond he sees his lack.

Sun dares to dip behind the traces of palm soldiers tall with headdress faces. The clouds now all sweep into place as if a child’s crayon traced the colors of the human spectrum until they mix in genuflection.

In memory of the sunny place this sweet bird had in my life. 8-22-03

Spirit Cloud

"What is rain, mother?"
asked the sparrow’s child,
long after the time of the last flood.

"I will show you," said earth.
"Gather a spirit cloud
and place it within my water jar.
Be careful not to spill for the well is dry.

Let it fill with thoughts of thirst
until it is puffed with importance;
let it fly like balloons
in every color to amuse the sky.

As it touches the top of brittle tree,
it will pierce it with an arrow of fire.
When the dry lake and river run gold,
you will know the meaning
of rain."

Crisp Around the Edges

Crisp around the edges
almost beautiful
like fried eggs in bacon grease
poached sea turtles and winter grass

Strangled by the current's ember
the hose leans into the brittle claim of leaves
blown about in air of nip-tuck
cameras shutter as they flutter

Fire eats the forest ants
and snaps the smallest thing alive
'til trees are bones and sky is smoke
as branches put on flaming coats

Hold still
the sky has come unglued
the wind is in me not just the air
when my hair falls in curtains
across the aching and I turn away
just not today

Primary Colors and a Stick

Using primary colors and a stick
I said something too sad to name
while curled up in the grass
way back at the bottom of the garden
with my broken looking glass

I could hear the groan that wetted the space
as if I lay in the wisdom of ancient dirt
nodding yes as I eased out my hurt

Waiting for a sign from another place
I watched the slow drawing of a spider's lace
feeling particles of life hitting me like pins
I was weeping with the knowledge
of something deep within

To touch a part of me I felt along a rock
I was sure there would be nothing left
buried in the soft dirt the skunk made
looking for something too
to nourish the long bones
and shine of this impossible hunger
this need to fill
fill with what

Standing weaving strands of braided grass
the rushing wind was taking
within this flight of air
I tossed despair
then sudden joy was growing there
like morning sun caught in dance
in grass a laugh began to thrum
then swung me around the gate of time
not late but mine

From the Bathroom Window

The old hose ran through it like a river,
creasing the meadow grass of the back-back yard,
where blooming wheat weed grew 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,
where caught within the plum's prolific fragrance
I clamor for the time of bare feet.

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

As though from an old movie camera,
I watched what I'd captured there in mind
from a Sunday of a long-ago April perhaps,
where the creak of the porch swing,
the steady rhythm of it, like time itself,
is following me or has stopped long enough
for me to watch it again with grown-up eyes.

Something About Light

It is always feathers and turning shadows

into something about light;

moving like the morning glory

from the far side of destiny,,

with tendrils of gold

falling from an oval sky.

It warms the slanting chair

then melts across the pathway of cement

into the room towards the crumple of sheets,

still indented by the night.

I close my eyes and turn on the sky,

wait for the fragrance of line-dry

to open doors and let out the danger

of the dragging-down fog,

as the dog, warm and filled with barking,

furs swiftly past my leg

into the mockingbird's song.

Inside this room of bone and skin

I awaken to the possibility of wing.

It is always feathers and flight

and the changing way of shadows

and something about light.

Making Wings that Open

Take the laces from my mourning cloak
for time is open to all seasons as this grass yields
to bare feet and the dew that is not yet frozen
is a giver of memory from the ground then gone
as lit by time the tree has defended the sky beyond

See the very hope of children in the den
with the rhythm of music humming within their bones
their galloping moves in me with the climb of knowledge
for so many steps I've lost to the ill-fit shoe and yet
counting one and two I can't erase the path nor find the gate

Could there be a God within this place of sky
the birds have come and gone and left me flight
yet nowhere to go to find the invisible thread
I yearn to sew but tangle lines instead

There is a pattern single and worthy
feeling silken on the inside lining lost at thirty
where the grace of giving stretch is comfort chosen
as hand to hand together love is spoken
and the sound grinds this dirt and tears together
within a garden's shelter with fence unbroken
planted with a million words and flowing
then finally making wings that open

Banyan Tree

The Banyan tree breathes

absorbing the sky

and dropping it onto the forest floor

making holes of light

Slowly roots descend from high branches

and open the earth

Gratitude feels good

The sky's or the tree's?

Gratitude feels good

to me

Mr Blue

I know that to fly

only needs the sky within

and belief in wing

Birth of Night

The season’s summer paint covers the hills bronze
like earth breasts they flaunt their curve
then cover themselves in cloak of fog
as they near the sea

The spirit of small sun's flower
fennel in yellow crown display near the ravine
filled with cattail in the seek of moisture’s last rain
where oak trees rise
like forever in peace of shade

Behind a great rock
the sun sets
diluted by the turn of earth
it mellows and changes form

I watch the others that stop
to give reverence to this moment
when time stops in between
as couples holding hands
and children silhouetted with their sand
all shade their eyes

I hear a song that is timeless
as centuries of human joy
watch the miracle of the birth of night

The Child of Anyday

Around and around we go
up down walls with stairs and pools
carpets of grass the pond all laced green
and the ladder to the slide
call the birds the cat the dog
just any bug in some delight
especially worms will be alright

On the swing a song is running
push rewind and play
hold me past the time of naps
playgrounds sand and the perfect shovel
sing with me your susurration's best
we'll make the shadows dance fast

The tree is opening leaf
and our balloon's all up and bloated
squeeze the monsters from the clay
and hold my hand
the inches wave goodbye at the door
and I will love you again on any day
and more

Coloring Outside the Lines

Playing with words
is how I draw
come see come saw
a cup of living
grace not flaw
currents the bewildered
and stays the gate

Tripping on eccentricity's
electricity
not late or fate
or taste of vegetarian
with a hint of straw
to draw the tooth
and grin the truth

Can you name
the holy gist
not quiz of sky
but behind the eye

Listen and wait
mark the path
but keep the turns
straight back
across the free
up so tree
and down so road
just know

Sing past tune
hope and bless
the silent sky
and closed eye rest
as stars fall down
weep not the cost
of what is lost

The sky will dry and all
will sun again
where the shadows live
in afternoon
come some soon

Sometimes, love is an ache that feels...

like air still waiting

in a place of moss and fern

inveterate tree

With love

With love because time is too short not to
be opening the door where there’s more
see how it grows color and song is all along
sidewalks crunch the step and sing
letting the holding go from the trees you see
a carpet is so made from time this way

And all the pretty pieces become strong
touching the napkin to the lips drip with a song
and more adore is understood
with color opportunity and aware
I am sitting in the middle of this art with my heart
and because I can I share

Swan Song

He was only ten
and sometimes unsure
teasing seemed to aim its arrow at him
and he fell into thinking
something was wrong with him
with his skinny arms
with his freckles
something

At a park one day
he was scattering the birds
throwing pieces of bread
into the lake where two swans
were engaged in a love dance
their necks and heads bobbing

His mother explained it
when he was nine and full of questions
neat is what he thought
into the warm spring day

Two boys with bats
snickering behind their hands
throwing rocks
skipped the water
and caught one swan on the side

Anger grew inside him
as he headed towards the two
now collapsed in gales of laughter

They looked up in surprise
at trembling blotched cheeks
and clenched fists
for the words that he hit them with
were power he learned that day
as he left the boys
sitting with their mouths open

He took off his jacket
flung it over his shoulder
and holding it with one finger
he whistled as he walked away
knowing there was something right
something right about him
something

A Child's Job is to Play

This is a chapter from my novel, Sweet William



A child's job is to play
Sometimes it's hard work

William lay in the hospital bed as the ambient sound from the TV settled around him and his thoughts.

"Hey dad, catch." Tim stood barefoot in the front yard under the avocado tree holding a baseball. A shaft of sunlight lit his hair and his long spindly legs were tan from the sun. He was wearing shorts and a t-shirt with a picture of Mickey Mouse on the front. There were three band-aids on his right shin. William saw him and heard his words, but the photo of his child's beauty and the importance of what he asked, didn't click. Tired from a busy day, was an excuse he'd used often since his father's death, when he'd taken over his three garages. The grease and the engine-cranking labor of a car-doctor he'd enjoyed as an employee, was gone as the boss. He'd taken for granted the smooth operation of the business and the nice pay check at the end of the week.

"Hey dad, catch."

"I'm not a business man," he'd told Samantha on that day. "I was never good at math." He was sitting at the kitchen table with stacks of paper work from the garage. Spiral notepads and file folders littered the table-top and there were boxes on the floor filled with accounts.

Got to keep these for seven years, he remembered his dad telling him. Samantha was moving around the boxes trying to put groceries away. She had a container of macaroni and cheese in her hand and was reaching up to a shelf across one of the cardboard boxes at her feet but couldn't quite reach. She turned and looked at William. He remembered thinking how pretty she was. The curve of her breast caught in this graceful movement like a dancer, her slender waist visible as her blouse pulled up. He could see the delicate crease down the middle of her back. He suddenly wanted her, wanted to run his hand down the small of her back, push the boxes away and lay with her on the kitchen floor. He thought maybe if they did that, then all the chaos that he felt growing inside him would calm and the world would be right again.

He reached his hand up to touch her back just as she pushed the macaroni and cheese in place in the cupboard.

"Help me," she said, then down fell a large can of pork and beans and a jar of peanut butter and barely missed her sandaled foot. Then, a glass jar of spaghetti sauce flew in slow motion toward the tile counter top, as William, who was poised to touch her back, tried to catch it. The card board box was in his way too, so the jar hit the sink and he could hear a sharp crack of glass as it fell into pieces on the floor, showering everything with shards of glass, tomato sauce and tiny sliced mushrooms.

"Catch dad," Tim called again, but William was deep inside this memory.

"Are you alright?" William asked Samantha. She had dots and globs of red on her legs and arms. A mushroom clung to her blouse. He could see the rise and fall of her breasts beneath it and suddenly he had an overpowering urge to laugh. "I think so," Samantha answered, looking down at herself.

"Good," he said. "Oh, my gosh, look at us..." He couldn't get any more words out. The laughter had come from deep inside and exploded like the spaghetti sauce, first softly and then louder until his sides ached and tears were pouring down his face. Samantha looked stunned at first, then her lips twitched and she smiled and caught William's laughter with her own in a duet that had them in each other's arms rocking back and forth with mirth. Finally, as the laughter subsided William wiped a fleck of sauce from her cheek and licked it off his finger. He touched her lip with his finger, kissed a tear from the crease beside her nose, and then kissed her lips. They were still holding each other amid the clutter of the kitchen when Tim walked in from school. Everything will be alright now, William had thought.

Tim's voice was growing impatient. "Dad, catch the ball, okay?"

"Tim," William said. "I just got home. Give a guy a chance to change his clothes and wash up. I'll be out in a minute." He tried to keep his voice pleasant, but he could hear the edge to it and could see the hurt in Tim's eyes.

Samantha was in the kitchen chopping vegetables for a salad. "Hi honey," she said. "How was your day?" She was wearing her old sweat pants and one of William's old shirts, and was barefoot, like Tim. Her blond hair was tied back in a pony tail and her face was clean and shinny without makeup. She looked like she was still in high school.

"I'm bushed," William said.

"Sit down here, darling, and let me ease those aching muscles," she said as she pulled out a chair.

William sat down and watched her wipe her hands on a towel and put the salad in the refrigerator. He closed his eyes as she came around behind him and started kneading at the muscles in his neck. She was humming softly. It was a song she sang to Tim at night, a bed time lullaby, an always asked for tradition, 'All the pretty little ponies.' Her hands were soft and cool and her touch was firm. When she finally stopped, he didn't want her too.

"I need to finish dinner, and I think you got a boy out there waiting for you", she said.

William went into the bedroom with the intention of changing his clothes. The bed looked so inviting. I'll just lay here for a minute he thought, and stretched out. In a minute he was asleep. He hadn't heard Tim's final call in the open front door, or Samantha later as she peeked in. When he finally woke that evening and looked at the clock, he saw that it was 8:30. He felt disoriented and dirty. He cold smell grease on his hands and his mouth tasted bad. He could hear the soft sound of the television and something else. ... He could hear Samantha's singing in the other bedroom. "All the pretty little ponies," she sang. He got up and went to the door of Tim's room.

Samantha turned as she heard him and put her finger to her lips. "Shh, he's asleep," she whispered.

Tim was laying on his side, curled around his hand which rested under his chin which was still encased in the mitt he had been wearing earlier. The baseball was on the bedside table. William walked in and bent over Tim. He wanted to touch him, but knew that would wake him.

"I'm sorry, sport," he whispered, then turned and left the room.

A feeling of deep sadness grew in him as he took a shower and put on his robe and padded into the kitchen. Samantha was sitting at the table. A plate of hot food was in front of the other chair where William sat down.

"He waited all evening for you to wake up, William. He went outside once and said there was a big moon, that you could still play catch. I tried to explain how tired you were, how hard you work."

"What did he say?" William asked.

"He said he worked hard too, but he still wanted to play ball with you."

The soft sound of the TV filled the hospital room and then he heard the quiet voice above it of Samantha Elizabeth singing ... she was singing, "All the pretty little ponies". How many times had he had to stay late at the garage? How many baseball games and dinners had he missed? He had wanted to be successful. He was sure that he had wanted that for Samantha and Tim, also. If he was successful then they would be happy. If he brought home enough money, then they could have the things they wanted. Had he ever asked them what they wanted? He didn't think so. It came down to something as simple as playing catch and a trip to the mountains. What good was his job and money if it robbed him of time? Where was his self respect from hard work when he was too tired to listen? He needed to mend fences alright.

Rain

Finally the fall of rain
creep creep the morning
along the quickening
slow go slow
today from fasting
holds a fortune
call them little pieces of torment
and change

a rag to rage the indifferent dirt
split and narrow crease of sorrow
hanging tree so glory bound dry
golden brown in stages curtained
to the naked almost gone

a cage fast from cloud escapes
the hungry night
and the brittle leaf
the weeping keeps
then falls

all grace of mending water
come save day

It Came on Wing

It came on wing of air soft-tuned
waif of thought loomed by mother’s willing knot
and minutes daring sky dark tossed

Saying now is in between of see
a place of dream and slanted time
and if you open mind of eye
past goodbye to winged caprice
where peace holds eager at arms length
you’ll see around the curve of grace
the lovely of a missing face

I know this thought is fulsome want
and bids to see past seem of real
to peel the skin between the strands
such faith is hard sometimes to feel

I’ve seen this bless of rip in fabric
all stitched down with stretch elastic
to leave the room of bright lit tone
and find a song no not alone
but filled with fabric cinched not severed
between the clouds I’ve seen forever

Erasing the Rainbow

The morning light is dim,
a veil of mist and pewter sky
where cool leaves, crisp and perfect,
lay still in wait for wind of fate,
await some crunch from out the door
that doesn’t hear what was before.


Changed Changed


Penetrate the mist of time
and walk into the silent morning,
hushed somehow where are the birds?
A footfall’s like a spoken word.
Looking for the sweet release
of knowing this covered canopy
only awaits the afternoon.

Now Now


Would the gate be closed to me
between this minute and the next,
how bide the glorious delay?


Stay Stay


Wipe the friendly imperfect glass,
erase the rainbow that is fake,
take what is real.

Fun Sun Sky Try

I am lifting the white from sky

Sifting it into a powder dry

To swirl with my silver spoon

To drink this mist off bloom of blue

Who dare inhibit the sky not I

I just want to blow some haze away

And dust the corners of the trees

Where spider web has caught the leaves

I’ll play in all this spring green thought

In dappled light be caught with naked face

And a bit of sunshine’s grace just out of reach

Of times great sweeping hand I can

Disturb the way that things must flow

A rhythm slow I’ll take to fast then dance this dream

With blues the beat and barefoot tapping dirt touched feet

To keep this drain from seeping out the pool’s cool rule

For I would make the water warm and sky to storm

Without a doubt I’d cry the rain all over me

And live as if mother nature be in tree

And with a whim lift up my chin with smile's beguile

This Slivered Moon

I could see the slivered moon
in the western sky resplendent
and in the shadow thus displayed,
reverence spoke as purple iris
knelt together petals folded.
Behind them in the bower silent,
sunflowers bowed like dolls with yellow hair
tired from sunlight’s hold on watching.

And then the magic evening breezes
touched the sage and released such magic,
frog voices spilled from off the mountains
across the canyon’s echoed chamber;
stillness folded in my vision
and brought me too complete delighting,
quenched the hunger of my spirit
with the moonlight's face beguiling.

Oh, slivered moon with shadowed light,
dream me perfect in your drenching,
breathe this spirit with a loving
sigh from magic moving heaven,
touch my skin to soft with lighting,
gorge my sleep with delicious dream,
keep me in your quiet watch
as day succumbs to nighttime peace.

The Dog Days of Summer

The delta breeze chimes

in the pallid air,
almost making music from the willing sunflowers.

Almost slipping
beneath the double pane glass
of my inconsiderate mood.

It moves the tall grass
beside a warm pond where fish
ignore ripples
with their lethargic large mouths closed.

In this room of bones and chairs
an airplane and refrigerator
hum along as the dog snores
in her old comforting warmth,
as a trickle of thought
from the corrugated roof of my mind,
weeps.