This rodeo takes me
in sandpaper blue, solemn all whiskey dances, my gratitude is resin cracked, peace dangles like a carrot above this trench for one, I know this day, it has the heft of every yesterday, it has the schooling of broken stone walls
In a colorless autumn
of unkempt, there are seasons of none and gone missing, today, this one day has come for decades, I believe the one-note bird I hear is the composer of salt for dry tears Like the ocean, with its spackle waves, I visit the shoreline brittle, but today, this bed is blue enough water, I choose to crumple in the music of stillness
I am blue flame,
I am the mountain in every bird, and today, in snow, a garden grows impossibly, frighteningly where I am copious ruin and courage, straw ribbon and emerald
The room is no song I have heard,
this hypothesis season of cold lexicons leans as if drunk on black wine, I imbibe wreckages, I will not come here again to this jigger of life, this tatter, this strewn, this toss of sentence without trial
Winter stayed that year of one
tremendous comma misplaced, the winds found trees unschooled in dance that fell as dominos, I tried saving money and laughter, I bought the happiness of yellow apples and swept pears of dust from under the beds, my fudge sold like springtime
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
Like winds set free
from cold stables, like a toss of deer, like mountains pooling in the distance, I went out into the jostle of gold coins for autumn had come to walk among us
In the distance, umbrellas
falling from the sky any rain is a lake of otherwise sea a whisper goes round soon it’s the wind in the stars and a cup of spiced Chai Photo: pexels.com
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
There is no dark violin,
so we comb our fingers, wanting to speak, wanting the silence, touching tender, choosing a hue
One of these days,
it will not be impossible, it will not be fog and hypothesis, and the trees will return from that place they go, puddles will bathe moons, and just when roses can’t be more – they will star
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
We walk on the beach
one of us wrestles seaweed The tide goes out one us says, God’s speed!
We run into other dogs
one of us pretends I’m not there I suggest some restraint one of us flies through the air One of us gets a burger on the ride home I suggest the ball One of us wants a bone
It seems to finish alone,
the evening silent blue, the call of butterflies in silence overdue
And pen in hand I scratch,
like morning hungry hens, but all is silent chair, the sleep of soft pink wrens
Yet in an often dream,
the poem is success, in slow swim of night the heart finds ways to bless
You’re surreal, my oxygen,
The tears in laughter, A much needed and a quiet, A shower and a shower – don’t make me decide, And Joe’s Diner for dinner in a booth in a window in love in a romance language sans words Photo: Petersen Furniture Inc.
turning to go summer in music fall in love and watercolor
in the beaded
gowns of battle under rose tinted skies you will love there and wish to stay
light snow in the wind I watch you enter unmeasured Picassos
a bird strikes
the window I know the dull thump and every flower turns to reach the sun
tonight, I’m fastened
to tomorrow in the corner a stack of books to be written
late in the day
the sun is working in the garden gathering gardenias and tossing them through the windows
I remember you
from a good life wherever you are please return to me the reckless laughter
a song on the wind
coming across the field if only you knew how your music is my only time of day
I have written
a river current into the meadow I run thirsty arms wide
the rain begins clouds kneel with the toadstools in a rock opera of hail
a fallen bit of
word then the bird continues with the same word I am ringing
in a back pocket
of spring from a packet of seeds comes a fawn breathing a new day
on long voyages
one needs a heading like wild blackberries dark ripe heavy clouds in an overused colander
the moon collects
in a bowl until it’s brimming white satin falling dream
is lost and all that matters is this cup to gather the stars
my love of music
in the morning geese migrating one room to another
When death is meringue
When death is merely the
goldfinch gone elsewhere
When death is on holiday
or too booked up
I shall go down to the sea
like boats do and sail
I need to see every flower
pouncing from the earth To see oceans diving off the rocky sky To see mountains tangled in weeds of clouds on the horizon The keening earth in volcano The end of each day pleading that I leave this place, so I can safely return come morn Photo: wallup.net
Softly comes slowly
to the middle years of this winter, the wind brews a cold cup of resin, while clouds are chipped chotchkies, fisherkings straddle an edge of memory as the moon crouches to explain
A day of dipping tree
first winter is due tonight I would call the hour “still autumn” and so we spend still autumn rearranging the fire into fire knowing the snow will come all at once every car the same model every tree turning to see
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
And your sky becomes paper plate and rock candy
hanging from strings.
In some way.
tree to tree.
heavy with rustle.
black the trunk.
If we leave the moon to its hammock
when the wind swings to and fro,
by god, we’ll lull ourselves an evening,
for cold weather is curious work
of hanging all the apples
Against all skies, all
within the singing heat,
melancholy’s cologne –
the dark sweet air
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
Be gentle, be autumn, be young
and cinnamon, put the kettle on,
fluff the pillows by the window,
curl up with another good moon,
I like that sun showers
don’t require shovels.
I feel better when muffins
have taken up with poppy
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.
While wind swept
the marble of
and trees became
a finer steel, we spoke
of dragons waiting amid
the spring morrows
A sea falls
moon rocks narrow
a raindrop’s instrument –
the twine, the twine, the
moths I go ’til dawn
a butterfly’s errand.
the corner of
perhaps an impossibly
just now at 1pm.
a butterfly’s midnight
in the offing.
that you and I will
Perhaps love is a drop of rain filled with river.
Perhaps we are satin when love arrives as sheets.
Perhaps in droves – love.
in thick carpets of air.
the morning is slow.
the lawn rabbits
about the moon.
pale blue cellophane
still whispering night.
to their will.
to fill the
lasts of petals.
goes a roaming.
as I look at my
watch that has never
never said cold steady
today, it said good-bye.
a pie tree.
to fall into air.
sense of a sunset.
to share this
this stream of
this valley dusk.
rich with occasion.
each a planted seed
for after this
for a moment.
caught in trees.
am one forever.
There was the raspberry
bush that knew no other
fruit than autumn and
the lily of the valley
once garden, I thought
to send you pictures, but
they were wanting to see
what I had seen, to be
there yesterday with the
scent of coming snow
falling all about
The etching hour
of shadows drawing
the delicate bones