meaningful shorts

Mellow
earth's quiet cathedral...
Mimosa tree



Giving birth
the field that was dried up...
yellow flowers





Sunflowers nod
giving substance to breeze...
summertime

I am

I am a load of minutes, heavy with wonder at the clarity of just one. Perhaps it comes at noon, on a day just as lunch sounds good and the birds are snoozing from morning's song. Perhaps it moves along the sidewalk, leashed and exuberant, wanting to be unchained; jumping and wild ... a rabid thing gone to joy.

I see how the load is less and the forgotten cast off, as dust performs a miracle and covers the unused things until they don't matter.

Sudden insights insist ... listen to me; softly the appreciation of little things grab hold and give to movement, meaning ... so many times now that the spirit comes from behind the silent silk of time and takes a bow.

I've known the power of listening and now see the wonder of being understood.

What is this willful character of celebration? It is dressed in wildflowers and recalls the grace of wind. It is a blade of grass gone green from spring, and the turbulence of snow-melt racing summer to the sea. It is hills of yellow mustard, curved like breasts in the morning sun.

It is the poem, in me.

Which way to the River

So far so far

The path
walks with you

A feather notices the breeze

The ribbon of sky
touches the mountain
small thoughts are caught in the tangles
that dot the ridges all bend and bough there

Too far

Distance is deceiving
Time is its brother

Bathe your feet in rocks
trust the bones of trees
they have captured the way
their flourish marks the path

Sit down with breath
without counting

Listen to air speak

The water runs free
in me

To the Heart

Can you see past the river where the torn ground spits out the sound
that eases doubt, and tremble of leaves is only fear, and perhaps deer,
a place unnamed where one sits and talks to the start?

It would appear that no one is here to listen to heart
that fills up each day with high octane and roars around the glitter,
pushing aside the chaos until there is a road that takes the lonely away from day.

The banter of lips is torn from touching heat so often, until blistered
they part and drink from this place where beginning is so cool
and the wash of life catches a callus that came from too much fool.

Too much filling up and letting out and filling again rubbed in,
and all that is left is to be here taking a breath and maybe asking a question
and listening as the sky quiets and the trees stop tremble,
to the heart.

July

A bright orange star
in a foliage of forest green sky
explodes

More than

liquor of roses
more than expressing color...
communication

The Counting Clock

Where all around once was hard rock
within the counting clock time takes us all
then breathe of flower upon the ground
up from frail hand stands
and thus would turn to grace
yes all of us

haiku

wondering
can anybody hear me...
fireworks