Warning

The sky, layered in textured and roiling grays,
Submerged a dull orange-red
Into the morning's horizon of the lake and
Gave background to water birds
Perching high in February's bare trees.
With necks hooked and silhouetted,
They watched the clouds,
Never seeming to notice
A hawk as it flew by
With a fish in its claws.
The light, limited and superb, escaping
The darkened clouds
Polished the tree limbs shining and
White as crooked bones beseeching the gods,
Furnishing a stage
For the sailors to watch
The birds watching the thunder build.
Cypress trees, void of fronds,
Stood sentry nearby, stately and hard
Against the next
Harvest of turmoil.

lunch with pandora

Cat Stevens and Sweet Baby James and Beatles

and Crosby, Stills, and Nash

sing love songs and break-up songs from so long ago sung

to fresh brave and newly chapped faces

later played at a constant beat

on tape decks and radios

in breezy cars that drove by houses on hot summer nights

while we rode shotgun in best friends' cars

to drag out the dousing with tears the smiles

of first love

of the rain and the fire

that came later as you set off on your own

to the world so wild that you met with a smile

songs played again as classic songs to girls forever sixteen

why couldn't you have gone there just in your mind?

as the song says

why was the golden-haired green-eyed one so beckoning to you?

why why why?

we asked ourselves then

we could work it out

we thought then

how does a singer have the power

to reduce a woman to a mewling girl?

they're just songs

they were our life forces

we sang them at the tops

of our lungs with speakers

blasting during the constant

circling of the streets rushing

our hearts with hope

for new love when actually we

thought love couldn't be reformed

after the mysteries of a new world

had been revealed to your young eyes

as the malevolence of heartbreak spewed out yet again

onto a world of girls

diminishing us as females

I was wrong 

I love this house and these two cats and

the one who lights the fire

it's warmer here

than in those chilled parked cars

but my pizza has gone cold yet the ice

has melted in my coke

 

 

 

 





Can You Pray Then?

Can you pray without words when

Thunderstruck, speechless

To compel verbs

Worthy of sounding

To a sacred height?

Can you listen to the flowing of water,

Send compassion when reading a poem,

Wipe tears while gazing at a painting,

Stare into space when too stricken

To conjure expression,

Hold a stranger's hand

To help him stand--

Yet accomplish the asking for grace?

Can you summon a shield

 And daily bread when you dance?

Can you pray while you dream?

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LJr6FknZhpM

 



THE ECHINATE STEMS OF ROSES

The echinate stems of the roses

The young man presents to his love:

Of what do they bespeak?

Willful heartache from submission

Begat by promises of splendor

With magnificent numbing barbs

Fetching a rush of blood

And collapse of velvet petals?

 

(from The Grandiloquent Word of the Day:  Echinate--spiny, prickly, bristling)

All Work and No Play Make Jack a Dull Boy

Triskaidekaphobia--

The hotel floor omitted--

Shining space of void

(triskaidekaphobia:  fear of the number thirteen)

AEOLUS

                                                                         

                                                                        
Without grasping whether black branches
Silhouetted against the morning sky thrust forth
With buds hidden against its grayness, I wonder,
Rather, does the gray oppress

The rattling of their fingers
Which attempt to undermine vague fog?
The coiling wind might divulge the secret of
The winning claim. The wind’s might, with a
Current of change, calls latent valor against
The strength of mystery.
It stirs hibernation, forcing it to grow
Weary. It stirs attempts of hoary laughter at
A false spring smothered. It calls forth
Rain to revive and cleanse. It calls forth
Snow to blanket more sleep.  It clears
The path for Helios in his shining chariot.
The wind, ambiguous to the eye that peers
Out the window, seizes
A revel in March.

PAYING THE DEBT

From the confines of her bed she hears

The dripping drops from the rain

That has come--

Hollow-sounding drops, echoing from the walls of the bucket,

Falling from the eave above her window,

Containing themselves in the bucket as a fluid mass, waiting,

Marking time endlessly, yet bearing up encapsulated

In the confines of the infinite moment--

A muted sound, drumming the
Certainty of the end...
And after she is lulled, stranded in the

Limbo of the dripping drops,

The bucket brims over, spilling

Its unseeded water in sheer and shining glazed cascades

Onto the ground...

Onto her nearby garden.

A death is a planting.