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.