Monthly Archives: February 2015

Love Song

The borders of the morning drape
Mere cashmere light around your wakening form,
While a supple sun on your mischievous smile plays
And blood oranges compete to make your mien their norm.

The grasping of artists chasing after their game
Trying to raise up Lazarus from the stone chips ideas leave,
Cobbling eyes to see what they feel but cannot name
In the palace of light and shadow your own eyes do weave.

Give me the hand tools of my own stumbling art
In the lengthening afternoon of my days
To turn the writhing branches of the word gardeners art
Into japanese wisteria blossoms of wonder in loves ways.

And yet, when our garden plan is unrolled for all to see
You, my love, are the smooth rock center of my own heart’s trinity.


Calumny is a word that needs a refresh. Like a pair of socks that got kicked under the bed years ago, it just needs some love In the word washer.

Here goes. Take a public official,
say a senator from Oklahoma, put an electric money hose where he sits and connect the other end to Big Oil. Then put said senator at the head of the senate Environment committee and turn the hose full on.

Now you can make him say things like “climate change is a hoax” with a straight face while the seas rise around us and the skies roar with new found energy.

You sir, have given calumny new wings! Slandering scientists who would try to wake the money and power drunk captains on the Titanic is the pure essence of calumny distilled! Bravo! The word even sounds as greasy as your actions, like deep sea oil sludge on a dying sea bird.

Unfortunately, our senator washer is currently broken.Washing sea birds is far easier than washing oily senators.

Wandering Bird

walking along the river,
there is a quiet lifting,
as if the day
we’re happening here
and elsewhere
and I was a visitor in both worlds.

Cormorants still hunt
from the driftwood snag in mid stream.
The sky road still fills and empties with planes
from the nearby airport,
and cars still trundle along below the levy
like weary office workers
circling the habitats
of their own slow river of days.

Yet here, in this moment,
is a kindness,
a belonging,
a wonderment,
like a glimpse of a great wandering bird,
blue green and iridescent,
strayed from its normal flyway,
drawn down to the sound
of all of our heartbeats,
and looking for others
who are lost in the own way too.

The Border

Do you come seeking a battle or a poem,
asked the old Irish border guards
of strangers in rattling raiment
on the darkest nights of the year.

Bronkowski says the same thing
on his tombstone: ”Don’t Try.”

Either go to your borders
with a well-sharpened sword,
and the songs that burn in you to sing them

or stay by the fire, stirring the pot
and scratching the dogs ears
until evening draws down
your own tired eyes.

Body Worlds Show

A human head
dissolved by beetles
and their agents

until only the brain capillaries remain
red wickerwork branches
in the stillest night on record

Apricots no longer taste sweet
Horses cannot be ridden
at evening

and presents must be opened
by those in charge of all
chemical excitements

Mount Stuart

(after Tu Mu)

high up the stony trail below
the hatchet-faced mountain

the bones of a horse
at sunset

Fishing the Poetry River

there is
a bow wave
ahead of the boat
where ideas pile up
and occasionally,
a fish!