Life Here

In the saucer – a teacup,
in the bowl – a moon,
I finger comb
a lazy tangle of stars,
I was swept by
the crisp cool, the first red
that made the bush that
held up the house that
had its last mortgage
payment, today

The chimes must
move in, the oak
will hold up the sky
that loosened
the leaves that painted
my hair that kept
the breeze in business

Tomorrow will come
in no new shades,
autumn will spend
its savings pell mell,
and come winter
the brook will have
gently laid down as if
a glass monument
too tired to stand

Given To The Trampling

Given to the trampling
I am moved and standing still,
a woman chases a scarf every day
on a bitter city corner somewhere,
again that damn dog barks at
leaves – their religion or

Have I said it’s blue
is there a bay there anymore
is it common now – if it’s there

and the shuffle of
shadows moves
the furniture

You feel the chill?
how it’s under the blanket
how it’s bereavement
for oneself

I untie the red bow
halfway, I slip on
the story blinks

In A Colorless Autumn

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

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?


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


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.



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.



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

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