I. snowflakes falling
featherlight one by one,
heavy in blanketed droves.
one more snowflake touches down –
dynamite flood –
shattering blasts –
pent up anger
freed at last
calamity in its wake.
quick-start anger like
sudden bright flashes
blooming hot and huge –
with a final ‘boom’,
erased in a breath of wind.
sizzling sparklers –
ignited with a single match
spitting sharp fire-webs
fizzling down to reddened ember
quickly cooled to ash
Desiccate, not dead
A giant’s vast hot canopy
Whose simmering shimmering horizon
Bellies up bolder silhouettes
A slow-baked earth
Pending the hour of completion.
What subterranean yeasts rise
1,000˚ Celsius into the millennia?
To be this still!
Silent, aware, most powerfully
I do love a watermelon--
so I ate a quartermelon.
My computer died today
after eight years of work and play
much of me was saved in RAM--
all of it was lost today.
Tomorrow I bring home a used one,
one, though stripped, with memory bare,
will bear as yet the imprint of
a stranger's sensibilities.
the software is the same--
a language I have come to know
from years of conversation.
I must remember:
There will be nothing there.
No databases keyed and combed
no photographs I favored,
no thoughts I saved nor pictures drew
and subsequently savored.
Though paths will feel familiar--
doors and hallways so well-known
will lead me not to the welcome warm
of all the self-made works and words
inspirited by me alone.
Tomorrow's paths will open into
only empty space.
where every shadow trace of
human occupation will be gone.
There will be nothing there
until the conversation,
left hard and soft in haste,
If algae made Stonehenge
would be strange.
Now all the costumes of the day are shedand put away in closets, bureaus, drawers.Outside the snow blows round and up and down,but nothing like the race of storms inside.
Hush.Color your thoughts in reminiscing shades—feelings sounds and smells of long ago.Softly now, peer into tender pastsand shed the tears not dared be shed before.
Shh, there’s a surprise—today is wide enough to hold it all.
Now all the costumes of the day are shed
and put away in closets, bureaus, drawers.
Outside the snow blows round and up and down,
but nothing like the race of storms inside.
Color your thoughts in reminiscing shades—
feelings sounds and smells of long ago.
Softly now, peer into tender pasts
and shed the tears not dared be shed before.
Shh, there’s a surprise—
today is wide enough to hold it all.
The eager rose in springtime blooms apace beneath the tender rays of lengthened sun whose warmth enhues with blush the budding face and gently opens petals one by one.
Perfumed, a halo limns the growing hour as arbor, heavy-laden, tincts the air in blossoms’ scents - a sweet olfact’ry choir of fragrant flowers singing light and fair.
At evening’s hush, the darker shades are hung as sun descends below a distant west. Enchanting rosy nightly vigils sung, the blossoms take the flower’s way of rest;
but through the night may still a roundel sing from beauty’s lovely joy and joy of being.
‘Take my hand,’ a murmuring wind
speaks soothingly to trembling leaves
in the waiting wood – they whisper sibilant, or
chuckling softly plash applause, all
chlorophyll drunk in deepest greens.
How proudly high the branchings reach!
to tickle clouds in a blushing sky
their play not done, arch upward yet,
silver now in aging light,
their laughter never ceasing.
Dusk is dawn for the wood’s night niche –
throughout the wood life skitters fresh
clicking yawn, rustly stretch,
murmur crinkly satisfaction ahhh –
this sleep was good
Take my hand, together we can
walk on twisting paths, skirting
sleepy roots of internecine trees,
through patchy moon beneath yet-laughing leaves
crossing starlight fields.
Wide, wide eyes will watch us
silent watchers, as the
sleepless sights and sounds
of life re-echo in the woods
throughout the whole night’s day.
And when the sun releases dawn,
in morning’s lesser lights we shall witness
sleepy closings in the wood – circle
tail to nose, bellies full, smacking soft
delicious chops, bidding ‘good night, day.’
colorful, patterned, powdery
tender trembling delightful stirring
dress required to
compete each dinner hour
with your blossom feed - I wonder,
Afrost with aged and trailing lichens, dim
beneath a crowded ceiling thick with green
competing green, where shadow-fall bedims
a half-lit soil's layered leaves, unseen
a temperate wood stands drenched in years, alone
and trackless; trunks of centuried girth up-thrust
from earth to sky, their thrumming fibers bone-
like, stiff with age and effort, still adjust
in gentle moans of mournful praise to wind.
A winter frost encroaches never here,
nor hibernation's sleep engender thinned
internal rhythms' count of quartered years;
through eons has this forest doubly grown,
its fecund summer cycle doubly known:
for deep below the forest floor a rock-
encrusted mantle breathes the longer breaths
of stone, where porous halls and tunnels pock
the basalt rind. Throughout its width and breadth
a steaming subterranean river courses,
bubbling heat boiling rocky walls,
the hard-cooked shells transf'ring heat moreso
as dampened warmth percolates through halls
of sweating stone and up, far up to micro-
fingered roots, that reaching thirsty for
its gift, descend into a clime alike to
tropic zones unknown this farther north.
So warmed, does forest flourish to this age,
with earth's deep fires lovingly engaged.
In the circle of thought where philosophy swings
is there anything concrete or useful to know,
or is turning a thought upside down the main thing?
If the dizzying circling’s the point of the show,
it explains when I follow that’s just where I go.
The eager rose in springtime blooms apace
beneath the tender rays of lengthened sun
whose warmth enhues with blush the budding face
and gently opens petals one by one.
Perfumed, a halo limns the growing hour
as arbor, heavy-laden, tincts the air
in blossoms’ scents - a sweet olfact’ry choir
of fragrant flowers singing light and fair.
At evening’s hush, the darker shades are hung
as sun descends below a distant west.
Enchanting rosy nightly vigils sung,
the blossoms take the flower’s way of rest.
But through the night may still a roundel sing
From beauty’s lovely joy and joy of being.
“We welcome pets,” is stated in the lease,
“A dog or cat, if small, may join your home.
The rent goes up, of course, to cover these,
And by the way, we welcome only one.”
I have two cats, an orange and a gray.
To keep them both, I’ll find another way.
To make one cat of two is now my charge:
an orange cat whose shadow goes at large!