The Line to Queens, a poem

We both smiled
in a way that said,
come home and who
might you be?

You got off first,
you didn’t look back,
I watched you
for years – walking away

Every Thursday
when one practices
Friday, I never
saw you again

Never learned your
name or your lifetime,
gave you fifty different
names for rock on,
lover babe



What Was It?, a poem

There were blank pages full of echo,
We sat in the same room becoming
swatches of paint and rowboat, we
followed night into scatter and wind,

There were tendencies of child, but
no, and when I say there was
rain, there were ten gears
that cracked, crackled and blazed

I remember you as the one, but
how could you know the blue
I chose would be the paint chip
mountains from a silent film?




Photo: pexels.com

The Water

The water turns here
by rote – a recitation
plump with gurgle
and moonwork

no one can say
why this turn,
I like to think
it followed a swift
changing its mind,

that it enjoyed
its tap shoes
on these rocks,

that an ambling lazy
afternoon, for moments,
became a stream

Ya Wonder, a poem

full-moon-lake

The way the sky makes crayons in the evening.
The way stars simply don’t mind a thing.
It’s the way the frost was Dylan just two weeks ago.

And Saturn spins at the burger joint in town.
I’ve heard cars fly in rain here.
You hear things. Ya wonder.

You repaint the bedroom like a Vegas Versailles.
You dream big. Then smaller…until that fire opal
finally drowns.

And your sky becomes paper plate and rock candy
hanging from strings.

 

Photo: earthsky.org

Perhaps August Doesn’t Know

baking a moment dot com

The humidity drowns out flowers,
the gem birds, the jewel songs – gone,
steamed vegetables – still growing,

Perhaps August has forgotten how
we suffer – breathing in the hot rain,
our garments sticking to their battles,

Then there’s a B&B in New Hampshire
that measures the temperature in
steaming cheddar biscuits eaten in A/C,

And at night, there is a down comforter
for each guest, and the hot water bill
goes through the roof every summer.

Perhaps August doesn’t know it’s winter
at Barthe & Bramble B&B, maybe we
just might stay ’til the leaves,

‘Til the first frost, when it’s safe
to come out, maybe we move in, maybe
we make ’em all three dog nights – this
summer’s end, this bubbling peach
cobbler season.

 

Photo: bakingamoment.com

I Got To Thinking…

rabbits black & white 50

I like that sun showers
don’t require shovels.

I feel better when muffins
have taken up with poppy
seeds.

Whenever possible, I
invite the moon in.

There are flowers that I
can recite from memory.

I love it when the lawn
engages in rabbits.

I mix apples and oranges
like nobody’s business.

Photo:  Havahart