Seeking Wing

The Weight of the Blanket of Love

2011-10-28T10:57:00.000-07:00

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 hand 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

And 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

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

The Loss Ladder

2011-10-16T14:01:00.000-07:00

The ladder is lost in the slow creep of vines

laced to the seasons with rain keeping time

forward the laying of names and their place

enhanced with engravings that memory has traced

Reminders drift down from the trees each new year

delighted the waiting is no longer for tears

change turns the leaves of October to blazing

and the sadness of mauve has fallen out of my daydreams

I remember the feel of the brush in my hand

down her tangle of curls in the dampness of morn

still the length of her smile in my dreams after midnight

can still open the time of that long ago storm

Now smoke and ashes dig into the hillside

and fasten the rocks from out of my past

yet will always be present in my still breathing chest

where the cradle still cuddles with my once aching breath

I can see now how dying is another beginning

the song sung within life's cadence is a test

as a lullaby bubbles and rock a byes others

I've learned each new step on the ladder is the best

To Weave a Basket

2011-10-12T15:54:00.000-07:00

The marsh twilight's deep staining feet

across the stone bridge I to keep

there filigree of music starts

to weave a basket of my heart

Such variant day in wind a change

touched by opening package lain

alive from powder’s fragile mist

across the whispered light of kiss

I go there to the cave of be

lit from reflected waters three

one rippled softly from my breath

one still as never moving chest

The third reflects the inside view

all dappled sunlight shadow hued

with sweet of longing bending near

a drop in time spread out in tear

I pull the plug within my soul

to empty cobwebs staining goal

and there in feathered imagery

I catch a hint of destiny

It like a coral ocean floor

distributes time through moonlit door

to see it sow imagining

and mend hurt flower fragmenting

Hold it up ‘tis sweet as sky

studded star sung lullaby

a canopy of slanted light

reflected from the fire of sight

Pull time across the plains of earth

into waterfalls exploding mirth

then watch the healing from the wound

of drinking drought by time perfumed

It’s plain as dirt on cavern floor

and light as whispered evermore

all parts be held or felt in clasp

from answered wisdom of the past

It is what stillness brings around

and listening pulls from warming found

in opening life times mending seam

to shake out dust from field of dreams

The marsh twilight deep staining feet

across the stone bridge I to keep

there filigree of music starts

to weave a basket of my heart

Finding Something to Smile About

2011-09-29T11:44:00.000-07:00

There is a difference
in the way trees react to wind.

One is still,
looking over the roof of the house,
its branches hold grace by holding back,
with a kind of regal symmetry
it keeps its leaves intact.

The tree just behind it is moving all around
and I can feel the music of its dance
upon my own skin now.

Like a jumpy kid in line to buy a toy,
it can’t hide the excitement of air that moves in joy,
and the sound of leaves like rushing streams
is music I hold dear,
yet without the stately charm of the other
would the song be quite as clear?

Lay Me Down Gently

2011-09-25T13:02:00.001-07:00

Lay me down gently;
I am worn smooth.
A hand can slide across my skin
and not be aware of the striations
from time's window wrapped there.

The umber of my hair
is like shade on sunlight,
and silk to the finger's touch;
slipping through the weave
leaves a song
that passes the bleeding ache of need,
not noticing the cusp of time
in balance there.

I am singing again with the youth
of loud exuberance
and my opera pleases me.
Light the window of my expression
and feel me scratch you with my fingernails
filled with dirt ... damp and determined.

Where are my wings then?

High and mighty there is a place
long past the sky or any crazy bird;
it flies with colors that have no words
and doesn't need explanation.
One day I will know the way there.

Come to me in the twilight,
as the sky descends into the warm earth
and the last flying bat snaps the smallest wing.
Lie down in the tall grass and listen.

The crickets will be stopped
by our rustling breath's loud whirr.
Catch my mouth as you exhale
and lick my fragile lower lip
to still the quiver.

Lay me down gently.

Moon Glow

2011-09-11T10:43:00.001-07:00

Do you remember what midnight said
all up lit the moon almost
in the slow steady stealth of leaves
couldn’t believe
the opening of gates and windows
and all the pretty songs
sniff sniffing along the path
behind the bush a majesty so small
there were pearls that were rocks before
and the road across the pond was held still
by the grace of sleeping fish

We were all wrapped up
in the color that crossed the room
when the drizzle of some madness took me
to see what dark of sky was for
around the bend of canopy candle lit still
like mosquito netting the smoke I blew
and unlit the thing that was weaving motion
and opened the door alive alight with focus
left for just this sweet of me all open can’t you see
and some how for one moment I was free

Sacramento

2011-09-04T13:41:00.000-07:00

Sacramento, California

Come morning
I see as geese do the river
because the sky to my eye
is what geese see

Sound holds them together
formation affirmation
the river a path to the green pleated grass
and the woven fields of corn
even bright heads of sunflowers
to the vine-covered trees
blackberry brambles and tule grasses
of the delta

That cool delta breeze
makes a song from just leaves
and blesses the wind chimes
awake through the night
in the quiet forgotten

Shadows fall from houses
where heat closes windows
and kisses tomatoes
until plump and ready
to settle the meaning
that was never a question

I thought that the sun
slipping into the ocean
had the curve of a love song
wrapped in its cheek
until I saw it melt
in the river beside me
swallowing diamonds
around my bare feet

Softly the pigeons sip from the morning
dipping reflection from just watered lawns
knowing life is always delirious with change
and lasting like love and front doors
finds the way home just like geese do

Taming the Wind

2011-08-30T12:45:00.001-07:00

Taming the Wind

All twirlygigged and twist of arm
can you see it in the flay
the branch is bent this way and that
and the wings all feather perfect are open
laying on the finest thread
a clean swoop onto the branch
that caught the triangle tissue in despair
how find the flow and how repair

It’s in a grace that feels the pull
though just a string it catches fold
of how the current speaks like dance
and hand on small of back just so
seduces the movement into flow

yet from watch of day all blue on blue
how catch and hold the play
or find the perfect tale
to spin again into the feel like that
on this earthbound today

Of Harmony

2011-07-23T13:19:00.000-07:00

Of Harmony

I take this thought all fragile with disquiet
and lay it on the purple hue of sunset
until you can hear the color that I long
like skin it warms until it's soft
then melts like footsteps wet on sidewalk
lost in fragments then just gone

Slow a minute then and wait for me
for I am not as quick as I used to be
and I look around sometimes and feel fear take me
to places where bitter truth is painted dark
by treasured sacred piece of me my heart

This brittle life can be so surrounded in a light
that in the last small piece of sun
it strikes a cord like just begun
then winks one last look into the pale ascent
lost in crowds all heaven bent to pay respect
to the monument that ashes build

Give then with tip of head and lowered eyes
a thought to peacefulness inside
perhaps then all with struggles will hit their knees
and listen to the way a chorus sounds of harmony

Hummingbird

2011-07-04T10:48:00.000-07:00

Hark, the stir of wings.

Holding on to air
is the quickening sound;
don't dare interrupt the flow;
make quiet your watch, not caught.

The dignity of a spear
assaults the flowing tresses
bunched and pressed there;
leaning into the drifting breeze,
lithe with zip-twirl,
the road an airway;
it supped at bird-stop,
filled-up with sweetest fuel,
then stopped before my wonder-face
and dared the air between us.

The Night the Sky Exploded

2011-07-03T15:23:00.000-07:00

Can we open that night again
when the moon curved around its shadow
and the air hummed
as we watched the night explode
across the western sky

cascading chartreuse ribbons
as whistling energy erupted into coins
that melted behind the palm trees
and turned to sand along the beach
that waited in the horizon

and I could see the musk and sultry strands
of my life fizzle and turn to wishes
as the moon burned in the ocean
and you just smiled
as your hand held the sky against my cheek

I am Hand

2011-06-26T16:29:00.001-07:00

A song made from deep look tremble
with tone of one finger drawn on skin
across the scrape of twilight
grace is caught naked in my expression

I pull a ruffled demure
and sweep back hair
as if its sail would stop the breeze

I marry with warm
absorb the knowing of holding something
and somatically learn
what was left unsaid

I speak heart tongue
fragile strong give tender

Capable culpable paired to task
into the wielding of weight and fragile
I can stop a baby’s cry
and bring a love to tears

I am hand
my roots are blue twigs
that flow the heart river
and take it to the reach of further
to grasp at chance and hold on tight

for in the lake she thinks too big
I am the magic ripple

2011-06-20T16:34:00.000-07:00

Be still like the pond...
reflection explains
how seeing is inside,
never let down
always wet

Precious Good-Dog

2011-05-05T10:09:00.001-07:00

Precious Good-Dog

striking the leather of a boot hard worked
again and again her tongue took rout
to polish the long bones and invisible shine
to reach the unforgiving ache inside

stripped sunlight and dappled porches
clouds on her back
shaking the rope with tooth full grin
a tennis ball and a shoe will do

a lap at ready play come kiss
the slip of paw on arm come rest
wake up now the suns at ready
hunger is not meant to wait past four
or any door be closed to the need

A walk along Precious good dog sniffer
joyful nose dipped touch to whatever comes
from each days newly discovered dredge
she found not lost the minutes never gone

dear furry length of old dog cuddle
now gone to comfort of death come take
May opened the gate of not enough time
and took Precious Good-Dog across the line
away from the ache of missing that's mine

Morning

2011-04-01T16:23:00.000-07:00

This wing
of morning creeps
across the nape of grass
onto the path with a piece of sun
that warms this small slice of cement
where I stand feeling its fingers of sweet breath
across the cheek of miles
as a minute winks past
ignoring my need
to hold it
longer

Cattails

2011-04-01T16:19:00.000-07:00

Cattails...
old ladies still straight but dry
declining to dance with the air
the nests of spring are stuffed
with their gray hair

Sun, Fun, Sky

2011-03-28T12:24:00.000-07:00

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 spiders web has caught the leaves

I’d 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 beguile

Epiphany

2011-02-21T12:05:00.000-08:00

My daughter, Michelle, died in 1974 from Reye's Syndrome. She was eight years old. She had been sick with the mumps and I gave her baby aspirin for the discomfort. The doctors didn't know what was wrong with her and gave her more aspirin in a suppository to help the vomiting. She died a day later. It was that year that the Reye's Syndrome Foundation was founded.
http://www.reyessyndrome.org/

When I was two, I was close to death with symptoms very much like Reye's Syndrome. I had just recovered from chickenpox when they began. The doctors did not know what was wrong with me, either. I suspect that I was also given
aspirin.

I believe that the girl in the bed next to me in the hospital was my connection through time, to Michelle. She read to me and her presence gave me something very special, even though I never saw her face and only heard her voice. She was 8, the age Michelle was when she died from Reye's. I don't know how I know this, but I do. Michelle and I had already agreed to be there for each other, (on the other side of death), to comfort-hold life with precious appreciation and joy.

I've wondered often about that girl that read to me for what seemed like endless time when I was so little....and now I'm sure that she was a
manifestation of Michelle. The doctors didn't know how to treat what I had, because they didn't know what it was. My veins were too small for them to get any kind of IV fluids into me, and I was told later that I was in a coma and near death. A young intern thought to give me fluids by injecting them under the skin. I began to improve. I think the girl telling the story in her bed next to me had as much to do with it as did the intern. This is still the story, only my hands now hold the book.
----------------------------------------

EPIPHANY

The room is blurry.
A cloth partition hums
with words from a story book.
I love the girl that is reading to me
from the other side.
She is sick too.
I think the story is real.
Stay awake an echo tells me,
this is too sweet to miss

but I fade in and out.
I am two
I tell the girl beside me
lost in the tall grass of time;
she smiles her words,
reading on into the drift of me.

She is eight and reads like angels
lifting clouds,
with each word comes
a dancing of choir,
making the compartment of my bed
into a meadow-come-spring.

We are woven, she and I
into a story
that happens many years away,
then tells itself again
as I hold her across the partition,
knowing the kindness of death
has painted the cloth again.

Hello February

2011-02-05T14:42:00.000-08:00

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

Music from the Corner of Winter

2010-11-29T09:53:00.000-08:00

We are wearing thin the rooftops
of the castles and the cabins
and the carpet in the doorway
is a pathway built of summer

You can hear the fingers knocking
slipping sea into the canyon
you can feel the moon regretful
drawing ridges on the pillow

They are wearing thin the blanket
lost the warmth in new of winter
gone is the open skin sigh
in the softly floating midnight

and you can hear the naked trees
release the moan of morning
you can feel the sky exhale
like a filling open vessel

and the cuddle is all curled up
not long or delicious slowly
it is under blanket fast-wrap
in the frozen sheets of evening

you can see the frost on windows
you can hear the teeth of singing
you can feel the arms of winter
as your slumber groans and mumbles

and you want to travel sideways
when you see the world turn crystal
then new magic takes a window
and fills it full of softness

and you know the perfect blessing
in a sudden turn of insight
is the music from the corner
of going home

Simply Ordinary

2010-11-27T10:43:00.000-08:00

Quiet the morning
takes the song from birds
and wakes the sweater of silence

Who can disturb the air there?

Wings fluff,
diffused by sky and funnelled
along edges of lavender
where waiting is sweet
and there's no need to fly.

A Love Story

2010-11-11T20:36:00.000-08:00

One summer day, hot and humid,
she, with windows open, fans going, was standing
letting the air blow an ice cube
up and down her arms, around her neck,
thinking, a man to run his finger up her arm
like this ice cube, making goose bumps
as a knock on the door made her jump,
feeling guilty somehow for her thoughts.

On the porch was a man looking with a grin
at her feelings, she thought,
selling Bibles, he said.
She watched his face, not listening;
the way his lips moved, the straight line of his teeth,
the crease that appeared, then disappeared
from the corner of his eye.
She had wished for a man and this one had appeared.

He told her about college and selling Bibles door to door
to support himself, to help his family.
He told her about his three young sisters
and one brother, how his mom was sick
his dad having trouble.

She bought a Bible, of course.
She bought a Bible, even though she already had one.
How could she not buy a Bible from this man?

Usually, words flowed from her like music
from an early morning song- bird.
How to make him stay, after the Bible was in her hand
and the dull day was threatening return?

The ice melted slowly in her hand
making a wet spot on the bodice of her dress.
She thought of the heat and this man trudging with his
sacred suitcase full of the Word, and the ice slowly melting
on her chances.

He stayed drinking ice tea as shadows fell on the day
and the afternoon breeze curled the pages
of the Bible that lay on the table between them.

They were married in the spring
and they had just planted a garden,
when he was drafted.

She kept him safe under her pillow
where his love touched her
with long and passionate letters.

Killing was not in him and he was sick
from the fear of it, he said.
He had seen his friend turn in the middle of a laugh
into a land mine and disappear.
After that he kept to himself, afraid friendship would breed more pain.

One cool evening as she turned the bed down
and touched the stack of envelops as tenderly as skin,
she was with him in the trenches watching
the quiet of the morning.
She could hear the birds, her love's loud breathing
and a frantic heart-beat.

Was it his? Was it hers?

Be still, she said,
but, he was running up the hill
away, away,

then the hill exploded
like red rain.

Walking the Gravel Path

2010-11-07T14:14:00.000-08:00

I take the thistle from dog's paw
and walk the gravel path,
passed the dried belief of limp
that was the past.
The wind muscled through
and took a limb from tree,
now it rests on the path like sculpted tomb,
a dwelling space for a seed some bird forgot
in favor of a worm.
What if I were to imagine she was skipping
on the mountain of her grave
and gave this thought to me in note of breeze,
to say, let go of the past that too long believed
that time was actually something that she woke to?
Steady sure time takes the leaf from hold
that seemed so sturdy true, when first it knew
how spring greenly gave itself the lie
and forgot that all must die.
I've plunged the knife into the wounded bark
that gave my years the memory, so often,
that art lost its form and words their diction.
Now I see around me truth, not fiction.
Backwards is no longer true
and even now the sky behind the clouds, is blue;
for across the water rocked with dimpled rain,
regret has drained.

It's About Time

2010-11-03T17:52:00.000-07:00

I look back and see time,
soft and folded to keep out the creases
made of cotton's constant bending,
it flows and turns magenta
just as the sun moves
and caresses the hard line of night.

Sometimes I feel I need to hurry,
to lap up truth
and with a hammer make dents
in the fabric that covers
the texture of life.

Tools, not weapons,
that I can make myself,
(I tell time's long face as it ticks in my ear)
made out of the swift current of my breath
from the boat of my hands,
not a scream tethering the spirit
to the whipping ball of some miraculous power
I know is heard even by the jellyfish
as they dance to the tides,
down in that place called,
More Than I Know.

Time remakes itself when we think it grows
and ages and groans and cries,
instead it is brand new and waiting
for someone to acknowledge
that it isn't very important, after all.

2010-10-19T12:48:00.001-07:00

I know that there is a miraculous power
hidden in the secret places of grass,
passing silent witness to the way the ground gives
the sweet perfume within quiet air
that seeps from the remarkable grace of a flower.

From Time and Change

2010-10-08T16:10:00.000-07:00

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

A Fly on the Wall Cafe

2010-09-24T12:47:00.000-07:00

As I digested thoughts of mug warts and nasty nettles
from the plastic vinyl and the lace curtains,
I turned the pages of the menu
as if they were time itself
hinting at bologna omelets, liver and onions,
even chipped beef.

There was a hum inside that was bright
with sunflowers, and children
slurping long worms of spaghetti.
I even saw a glass of laughter milkshake
blowing a straw paper that hit my heart,
but I didn't see a single fly.

Would you like a glass of cool? the waitress winked
and made another line on her face.
There was precious room for another
so smiled was her skin
and lubricated by bacon grease and the cubed butter
slathered creamy yellow onto pumpernickel, raisin
or a sourdough slice of fresh backed every day bread.

Did I really settle for tuna fish and french fries, even a coke,
when I could have had a butter-battered blueberry delectable?
My senses were caught in the plates that passed,
breathing dumplings and real maple syrup.

I couldn't tell you what I ate
but I know that I was full
and as I drove away I found
tucked into the neck of my best dress
a napkin where I'd written these words.

Tides Suck and Release

2010-09-15T12:05:00.000-07:00

I'm so far away from beach towel days
though my gaze down the canyon
in my viewfinder stays
on the old comfortable seat
of some beat up van
where I sit with the sun
listening to insects hum
and kids on the playground almost complete
a belief that sand is sifting beneath my feet

Where the ocean curls so far away now
I can almost hear it in the breeze through the sunflowers
drained dry and brittle and sinking into seeds
where birds tweet and treat delirious with time

I can stay the past
with seagulls play and the sweet salt air
burning in my reverie
then turn away like summer does
away away to the rolling motion
of tides suck and release
a tease to the wiggle of toes
like these
on an old comfortable seat
of some beat up van
where I sit with the sun
grateful I am

Anseriforme

2010-08-12T09:32:00.000-07:00

Above flowing dark waters
Past the last minutes of sun’s light
The geese hold a ribbon of sound
That takes me with them into evening sky

In their fold of brotherhood
Strapped to invisible currents
Lost in the last pointed star’s reach
Knowing direction by unwritten instinct

They follow ancient echoes
In the fantasy of their call
Shredding sound like guileless music
Into the long low growl of something wild

Written on vellum from broken trees
The sound strips my tongue of its hold on earth
And slings the arch of my inevitable smile
Over the wild open jasmine of time itself

Time Off

2010-08-09T16:44:00.001-07:00

The air inhales
the tender pulsing
of the birds.

They leave the sky
and carve the dirt,
digging into the place
where the sprinkler leaks.

The steaming, invisible air
has taken the lips from dew's child
and is breathing upon an apple leaf.

I can hear the brittle voice
of the curled tree
from the cleft of its shadow
where the cat's listless tongue hangs loose.

Time has ticked the water off,
to keep it safe
until the sun squeezes its last harvest
and falls off the edge.

Reflection

2010-08-09T16:10:00.000-07:00

cool lush moss shivers
stirring leaves into the pond...
memory of face

meaningful shorts

2010-07-31T14:26:00.000-07:00

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

2010-07-31T14:04:00.001-07:00

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

2010-07-18T12:54:00.000-07:00

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

2010-07-18T12:35:00.001-07:00

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

2010-07-15T12:27:00.001-07:00

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

More than

2010-07-13T14:23:00.000-07:00

liquor of roses
more than expressing color...
communication

The Counting Clock

2010-07-11T13:14:00.000-07:00

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

2010-07-05T13:26:00.000-07:00

wondering
can anybody hear me...
fireworks

Music from the Corner of Summer

2010-06-27T13:47:00.000-07:00

The grasses move like feathers
in the breezes through the canyon
and the fog in soft of cover
brings the ocean’s fragrant sand in

And the sleepy peace of dawning
with only sheets for cover
softly feather heads on pillows
touch an eyelash still a dreaming

And the buds of petals sing now
with a buzz of frantic movement
giving purpose to the beauty
that has filled the air with fragrance

And I want to dance on green grass
in a dress of yellow daisies
lay me down within the arbor
listening as the fruit is ripened

But I feel the clock is ticking
in the shadows past the hedges
caught within the dirt and drainage
of the folding fallen wildflowers

So I hold on to the questions
and I wait for the horizon
to reply with mauve of sunset
warm with dark and heavy breathing

And I know the perfect feeling
is in holding on one minute
to a look that’s filled with loving
falling into drape of silken

For the hum in dark of midnight
under canopy of stardom
singing soft the mad of midday
with a sigh within a love song

is the music from the first of coming home

Drowning in the Long Day

2010-06-21T14:27:00.001-07:00

Green is almost gone now;
tussling with this long day
that creases shadows of sunflowers,
still tossing their brown and yellow heads.

The meadow has dried,
mowed under and stomped clear
are the delightful dandelions.
They wait beneath the heartbeat
of the whispering wind
to become again.

How glory-full it feels
to let the open window stay all night,
letting in the sounds of summer children
until it’s almost dark with laughter
and slammed doors.

What time is night,
when the moon is so still and awkward,
the porch light reaching into the dark
with fingers like ghosts wanting company,
electric blue and eating sleep?

Today the day will stay
long into the fingers of twilight purple,
making amethysts in the river
before leaving once more,
drowning the bottoms of things
until the current rips hours
and time stands still.

The Fight of Meadow and Lug Nut

2010-06-11T12:51:00.000-07:00

Even though he was tightening lug nuts
his thoughts leaned against a tree
in mountains far away,
sitting so still that life
went about daily tasks.
A cottontail dislodged rotting leaves
stopped and sniffed,
scratched a soft, pink ear
and disappeared behind a log.

Purple Lupine caught the air
to dance in a spot of sun.
California poppies littered the slope
beside the trail.
The sound of water was everywhere.
Three quail bobbing their heads
in unison, their pointed feather hats erect,
marched with purpose towards the sound.

In the garage the air was stiff
with the smells of gasoline and oil
when a shadow fell across his vision
and his heart moved from the peace place
and skipped and jumped him a warning.
Slouched in front of him
was a man with mean eyes.

The man’s face contorted
then dislodged a sound,
belched an acid laugh into the garage.
It echoed unpleasantly
across the meadow
where the mule deer, squirrel
and black bear roamed
and a dark and menacing cloud
formed over the sun dappled place
of poppies and lupine.

When he saw the intent that waited
in those eyes, his hands became fists
and he watched as the lug nuts
rolled across the floor and settled.

Then,

a question came up from inside the cave
where the sleeping bear had wintered
and the question was hungry for answers.

He searched the verdant grass
and the trail that looped
from years of thirst,
towards the river that flowed
in moving crystal light.
He followed it across the years
into the man made lap of knowledge
that brought pipe and hoses
to desperation
and he knew the answer.

The answer was a civilized thing
and it dripped now into his anger,
where violence waited to lunge
with the full black weight of its hunger,
fed by his father’s words,
echoed through generations
of fathers and sons,

"Be a man."

He heard his father’s voice
softening with the opening of his hands
and his father’s name for courage
gave up and settled into whispers,
as the mean eyes became confused,
tension slumped and defused
and a sigh emptied into the garage,
lingered a moment
then disappeared.

Onion Flower

2010-06-07T17:12:00.000-07:00

socially awkward...
walk by without noticing
beautiful flower

These Three and Me

2010-05-31T09:22:00.000-07:00

In the mourning dove’s lament
across the line of sky where time stops,
in the bend to light of tulip face,
I feel embrace of love
not stab or wounded wide
in cry, no,
at peace from misery’s last sigh
and hallowed by the places it has been.

A mother's grace of smile to child
in open arms now warmth displays to little me,
so fragile strong in run across the lawn of time
to grasp her skirt again
and feel some safety there at last from past.

And father young and captured in
the sandy beaches of my heart, still ebbs, is gone
yet flows to teach the steps to take past fear
with open arms the beacon, into the depth so lit,
to experience beyond the fear, the joy.

Even winter with love just broken
and child by death newly taken from me,
I knew the white light around the place,
this corner of grace was where to go
to hold myself within my arms
and know even past my sight
that everything would be all right.

And so those three with some of me
have stayed
in places they knew not,
to break the chain that held me tight
so I could fly
within the mourning dove’s lament
across the line of sky where time stops
to meet them once again.
-----------
5-26-02 (In memory of my mother, Marian; my father, Vincent, and my daughter, Michelle)

Of Harmony

2010-05-29T10:22:00.000-07:00

Slow a minute and wait for me
for I am not as quick as I used to be
and I look around sometimes and feel fear take me
to places where bitter truth is painted dark
by treasured sacred piece of me my heart

This brittle life can be so surrounded in a light
that in the last small piece of sun
it strikes a cord like just begun
then winks one last look into the pale ascent
lost in crowds all heaven bent to pay respect
to the monument that ashes build

Give then with tip of head and lowered eyes
a thought to peacefulness inside
perhaps then all with struggles will hit their knees
and listen to the way a chorus sounds of harmony

haiku in red

2010-05-28T16:05:00.000-07:00

reflection...
in this red dress
do I look fat

Expressions from the Corner Shopping Cart

2010-05-28T14:54:00.001-07:00

Curve of lashes take me to a place
outside in dark
a moon song of expression in the corner’s
shopping cart

Built from all the coupons that surround
me with confuse
with the front page of the paper
and the latest blow up news

Should I open up this fear that plants
my chemistry
with battles fought and children caught
in hateful blasphemy

My spirit takes it like a slap
on the face of what is grace
and to hide is near impossible
when a prayer is made from hate

I wonder how one person can rearrange
this way of man
where circles were unbroken now all I see
is trash filled cans

And more and more to see my jaded eyes
are looking down
to find the tiny dignity
of some green cement surrounds

This quiet comfort fills me with the need
To make amends
but what for and who too the list it seems
might never end

So I sing within myself a tune
of loving arms surround
and I touch the ones I’m holding close
within my cotton gown

Then like magic in the midnight sky
with opal riding low
I hear the soft sound of mending
from other hearts who also sow

A Song Was there All Along

2010-05-21T18:46:00.000-07:00

The air is full can sing
with drain of day
darning children and birds.

Someone drags a trashcan filled
glass, a box, leaves and things;
gated garden’s swing I hear sing
as air sucks in the sun and makes a wind chime stop
and listen to the end of day.

Airplane and train in magic become loud,
the music like a lonely ear
too proud to pay attention,
suddenly perks and nods.

at maddening bat fly-by to take
the last small thing in air it ate,
could almost hear the snap and crunch
the whirr of wing the light so lost.

Just a jewel in deep of pool
and a song was there you know,
probably all along.

Time and Pomegranate Wine

2010-05-14T12:52:00.000-07:00

I am stained by pomegranate wine
watching the sun and birds crack my skin
recalling how I sucked each seed
until my tongue was red
and my fingers held
the color I spent
when persimmons sucked my mouth dry
and yet

each morning's mirror
holds the sweet gloaming sound of the sun
slipping up into another rising
and I hear where doves hide under rafters
loving feathers playing musical rooftops
with the soft snore of a dog the same

my finger's still hold the pomegranate's stain

Neighborhood

2010-05-04T16:13:00.001-07:00

I just took a walk
to say hello to neighbors
in their swimming pool

Still Life

2010-05-04T14:13:00.000-07:00

Hummingbird

2010-04-19T09:11:00.000-07:00

Lithe with zip-twirl,
the road an airway;
it supped at bird-stop,
filled-up with sweetest fuel,
then stopped before my wonder-face
and dared the air between us,
then was gone.

Albino Lashed

2010-04-10T13:03:00.001-07:00

From the corner of my eye
in whitest white came in the door
albino lashed a thought to me
for free it fluttered just to left
I did my best to still my breath
afraid in skirt of small spaced flight
I’d turn and rupture such delight

Behind me now I felt the smallest wind
touch the fold behind my ear with whim
like song in key of wonder it beguiled my neck
with thought of lovely trust in tangle
with my hair a riot of wings and lust

Was like the fingers of a cloud
I followed it out the door to the blackberry
blossomed and looking so like the flying thing
the flower and the creature be
a mated pair one so still and touched by air
the other twirled in and out her thorns with care
and I a voyeur to their thrill
delight the pale and capture with eyes filled

In the Place where Morning Dwells

2010-04-03T15:28:00.000-07:00

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’ve felt 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
the truth is the magic sender

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

Small Things

2010-03-11T11:42:00.000-08:00

Each small thing plays a part
maybe sleeping in the corner
a speck of leaf come in with breeze
unchanged for hours and kept safe
by walls corner and a large green vase

Could a sneeze be born from such
unnoticed piece of tree traipsed in by boot
tromped on flower petal smooched
then crushed within the pattern of an oriental rug
the color of old roses mixed with dust

So many small patterns fill a life
some touching and forever changing
what they touch like a knife gone dull
sitting in a drawer where water leaked
turning silver handle to tarnished piece

Perhaps there is no bigger answer
only little pieces that one puts together
not even a plot to move the story along
like melody to song can change or rearrange
and sometimes one small thing like a child's toy
was lost just to be found again
so it could ignite forgotten joy

Music From the Corner of Spring

2010-03-06T10:55:00.000-08:00

I can feel the dirt is moving
On the tips of green I see it
As the sun fills sky with morning
It is building bone on skin now

And the deepening of darkness
Is because the day is lighter
as the ducks flying to summer
Find my open morning window

I can see the breath of springtime
In the creeping warmth of breezes
And the shaking of the rooftops
Is the scattered raindrops drying

I can feel my skin get lighter
And its cloth makes silk from flannel
For the window will be softened
Chill be taken from the curtains

And I want to travel seaward
Across the nape towards summer
Fill my buckets with the fragrant
Seaweed shells and sandy dollars

And I know the snow of fresh fall
Will be melting on the mountains
And the apple painted sunsets
Will swallow whole the day in lovely

For the winter's almost over
Its cold sheets of curled sleeping
Leaving shadows to delight in
Fine for feather-pillowed nighttime

As I feel the warming fire
From the hands across the seasons
Fill my cart with favorites
Walking with me into April

No matter what the season's heart-song
It is the window that opens inward
That is the music from the corner
of going home

Forever February

2010-02-25T14:42:00.000-08:00

All along the edge of night
she silent slips with ancient ways
with toss of head sends mauve to dark
this art work is the sky and more
belabor not the trust she has
that turn of hand can bring sun down

Come February now the time of mourn
she stops to ponder not worn or wasted
how display the color of the way it feels
to leave beloved flying over hills to stay
forever along the mist that tears have made

She knows this space from every year
has come to feel the callus it has wept
and contemplate the ways to pull the paint
to make a backdrop compliment the grief
and some relief the beauty caught define
like sweet memory of sun in shine of hair

The time is near now she can feel the strain
though it remains eclipsed the brightness fades
then opens new a page of month of days
so turning now she sets the sun in clay to bend
forever February into love again

Meadow of Mustard

2010-02-09T15:20:00.000-08:00

A woman watches the west for words
as the wind wipes them from her mouth
and plants them with the haste of winter
into the blowing grasses of a meadow

Singing to the yellow profusion
green weeds dare to whisper about spring
(they have rooted in the pouring rain
and understand mud and time)

Meanwhile a random feather is caught in the fray
and drifting like a kite in early March slowly slides
the invisible air like a lover's silk-lined gown
down into the print left by the woman's boot
as she watches the west for words

The Reverence

2010-01-23T13:59:00.000-08:00

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 flight
of birds who watch the water swell
until first light's silver slither

when suddenly all is still

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
crushed beneath the raging breath of earth
almost cursed we are blessed

The House on Mystic Hill

2010-01-18T14:32:00.000-08:00

It is only a house;
the far off places of my heart
reflected in its windows
as if they held secrets
made of glass.

The redwood tree
gives no thought to winter air
or the leaking that time gives
to old things when it rains.

House

2010-01-07T15:17:00.000-08:00

Sentient wood
splintered warp of other hands
took measure of the woven trees
smoothing the plane until
a song from a meadowlark
became a gasp of air

Glass eyes reflect the landscape

out back

where moss covers the rocks

in artistic afterthought

Now its continence

a majestic presence offered for the price
of a labor intensive future

sits alone on top of a hill with a view

Ornaments of Love

2009-12-25T10:27:00.000-08:00

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

2009-12-21T16:55:00.000-08:00

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

2009-12-19T14:54:00.000-08:00

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

2009-12-13T10:59:00.000-08:00

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

2009-12-12T16:57:00.000-08:00

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

2009-12-04T15:22:00.000-08:00

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

2009-12-04T12:41:00.000-08:00

Blue-green reflection

mighty trees capture the light

above and below

The Weight of the Blanket of Love

2009-11-27T16:22:00.001-08:00

To Michelle, with Love

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

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

For Now the Fern

2009-11-25T20:22:00.000-08:00

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

2009-11-24T14:40:00.000-08:00

Light of sunny now

touches ghosts in ancient space

where yesterday sleeps

Covered Bridge Beneath the Waning Light of Autumn

2009-11-23T17:30:00.000-08:00

Reflection

2009-11-18T10:11:00.001-08:00

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

2009-11-10T15:04:00.000-08:00

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

2009-11-10T15:01:00.000-08:00

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

2009-10-30T13:19:00.001-07:00

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

The Room of Chairs

2009-10-24T16:28:00.001-07:00

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

2009-10-24T16:11:00.000-07:00

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

2009-10-24T13:01:00.000-07:00

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

2009-10-20T10:55:00.000-07:00

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

2009-10-17T19:50:00.001-07:00

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

2009-10-16T16:05:00.000-07:00

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

2009-10-15T08:37:00.000-07:00

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

Past the Sky...for Michelle

2009-10-13T08:12:00.000-07:00

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

2009-10-13T07:32:00.000-07:00

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

2009-10-13T06:49:00.001-07:00

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

2009-10-13T06:40:00.000-07:00

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

2009-10-13T06:29:00.000-07:00

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

2009-10-12T10:32:00.000-07:00

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?

2009-10-09T14:21:00.000-07:00

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

2009-10-06T21:33:00.000-07:00

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

2009-10-06T20:53:00.000-07:00

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

2009-10-06T19:41:00.000-07:00

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

2009-10-05T13:08:00.000-07:00

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

2009-10-02T09:37:00.000-07:00

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

2009-09-27T08:19:00.000-07:00

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

2009-09-23T20:38:00.000-07:00

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

2009-09-23T20:10:00.000-07:00

Rubbing Raw

2009-09-23T20:01:00.000-07:00

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

2009-09-20T12:59:00.001-07:00

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