love song

winter dawn descends

in a flurry of gray

a mourning dove woos his mate

he struts/coos she

looks on through beyond

ruffled feathers to

a shadowed soul

where a dismal tale is told

in the stance of a low-slung cat.

(photograph: Charles Lentz, Winter Scene-Mourning Doves, 2008)

Journey to No

We walked the dunes under a pale September moon
and marveled at nature’s tenacity.
Reeds and grass
rooted on shifting morass
nourished by wet green air---
trees grounded only on wind.
We kissed on the shell of a sycamore
who had given up the fight then

stumbled to the beach where
you picked up a single stone
and cast it without thought to the sea.
I wondered at the aeons
that had gone into his journey
I wondered at history---
at his story and ours.
Later you picked a daisy,
looked into my eyes
and smiled.

I almost said yes.

How It Will Be








Hard and fast
we ran through the woods,
dancing on the corpses
of rotting trees,

on to the beach beyond
where we hunted fossils and
smiled as we watched a living pair

hold hands.
But when we came home
we took off our shoes--
best not to track in the debris
of dead civilization.
Eliot lost in his wasteland
understood beyond all
the real meaning
of the death of the gods,

but youth will always discount astronomy
with its shifting of stars
and its gravitational pull
on the gears of clocks.

(Image: David Sidwell, The Wasteland)

On Reading Tea Leaves

in a Bottomless Glass

They laughed at our wineglasses---

ancient stems that carried us

through corduroy bell-bottoms

and campouts on the beach---

past the sound of the corner phonograph

playing Beetles forty-fives.

We flew on faith--

white lace sells cheap

when the glass is full.

Harder to cling

to the promise of an empty glass

where nothing remains

but the dregs of dime store wine

and the endless busyness of despair.

(Image: Van Gogh: The Night Cafe 1888.)

9:16










This morning she left home to buy lemons
--- six for a dollar ninety-eight ---
but down at the corner while
a yellow light

blinks caution

she thinks

on the bitterness

of unbroken silence--

the taste of acid irony
proposed to fill the

empty air and still--

she longs for

the translucence of lemons.

Farther down the road
a bouquet of yellow balloons

battles hard against the wind

--- How much will you take for resiliency ---

The balloon man only smiles.

(Image: Wassily Kandinsky: Komposition VII)

White Space I


Make a poem/unmake a poem
sometimes the words flow
others ice dams
jamming the drop
and the page below
remains lucidly clear
uncluttered
the page remains
tranquil/white
troubled only by the shadow
of the maker's empty soul.
------------------------

White Space II

Breath/apostrophe/unconscious
Breath
Apostrophe
Unconscious
to focus is to fear
to focus is to fall---
when the word comes
cold hands cover the mouth
the word is the enemy
the when/the where/the how
what you don’t hear didn't happen and
tragedy bypasses the deaf
it lurks in dark corners
waiting to crush the unsuspecting
a word and a whistle
unheeded/life proceeds
Unconscious of function
Unconscious of the inrush of air
word ceases and
tragedy bypasses the deaf
Breath/Apostrophe/Unconscious
Breath/apostrophe/unconscious
Breath
Apostrophe
Unconscious

el dia de los muertos

the dead don’t dream
but lie sleepless in tombs
meditating on the nature of flesh

and the fortitude of the

insomniate soul

the dead take no meat
but pass the time
in hungry contemplation
(or dreadful anticipation)
of the feast to come

the dead take no drink
but sip the dregs

of roads not taken
of opportunity passed
or grabbed up by the lapels
and shaken the dead don’t dance

until they rise.

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