Monthly Archives: July 2015

Sculpture Garden

Putting a clay torso in the garden
made today a celebration
like finding a starfish in a tide pool
or hearing two men singing by the library.

What if the worst never came?
What if it did? What if bare experience
made things happen only here, like ants in a jar?

I pulled the last of the english ivy from a small patch
in order to make a native shade garden.
Its brethren ivy all around looked on and smiled, knowingly.

The jury is still out on only here versus everywhere the same.
Freeway noise does eventually die out in the forest.
A recluse emerges from his stone house farther up the mountain.
I say hello and he smiles and waves and turns to his garden,
his ivy and his penstemons.


In Germany they keep
a few old things around
for when the days get brittle.

Fasching is when clown beards
come alive and small birds fly out,
when wine turns back into blood
and girls and boys love-chant as sacred fools.

I flew down the stairs unbelieving
to see my friends as they should be, a happy seething mass
painted like African dancers
and sea horses and zebras.

Later there would be time
plant weeds to keep other weeds down.

Tonight is Zauberei!

The Road

The wide sky, the tar road,
the railroad trestle, the frogs at evening.
The world is outside waiting, waiting.

The sunset creeps down its evening vine
like a Gauguin painting.

And look, over there,
the clouds rolling in from the sea,
those great ruby and orange-robed sky monks.

How beautiful the world is
when you wake from sleep!


I saw my grainy days
into single words.

Each day-word came
like a loaf of bread
warm from the oven.

Even the night
I hit a family of deer
on a snow hard mountain road

became a guilty gift,
like a story
in stained glass.

The High Road

Ravens are digging in the snow
high on the mountain this searing afternoon
like a negative painting by Carravagio.

Who sees behind the mirror makes
a road, a path through the wilderness
beyond where the hills are wearing away.