Poetry Scrap

would you trade for a scrawny neck
mottled feathers and prey on others’ minds
if it meant love like a dove can find?
cooing and coddling the other’s breast
the pair fly everywhere together &
sleep nights warmly nuzzled.

Sleep

Will today ever stop feeling like the other side of something? Probably the oddest aspect of life is that it gives the impression of being a continuous thread. It’s not! It is in fact a line of discrete objects, marbles let’s say. And some are touching and some are inches apart. But no two are what you’d call connected. Our days are seperate, each divided by the little death of night. Continuity is artificial. Hard work, too.

Poetry

The ‘you’ addressed here being the collected wisdom of the Universe, God, Allah, the collective of Gods, however you label her –

my long ignore-ance of you(th)

you tried to warn us

but we were us and so

as I push this little engine north

on your mid-interstate midnight

my mind mines what I made –

a liquid ore insoluble with saccharines

Poetry

This is almost 4 poems in one. There’s the trail, and the first cracks of summer, and how I address my tree, and how my tree is aging. It’s Ferragosto today and a bit sad because it’s not only the peak of the one and only ever 2007 but also the first cracks are starting to appear. The pendulum is swinging. Soon it will be time for fire. And then the fall harvest to follow…

Ferragosto

hiking Lopez Canyon trail

Ferragosto, California

green spring reeds grown high

then baked in our summer oven

desiccated beyond brown to grey

thunderheads bumping over the eastern hills

a midsummer’s afternoon heat

then a sudden cool western gust

surprises but why? it shouldn’t…

– approaching my sycamore

matriarch in her summer greenery

shimmering syc leaves, all velvet bellies

I walk to her trunk, pound a few times

her bark & solidity versus my raw knuckles and

measuring her abilities to wound me

move me & tickle my neck with velvets –

but velvet leaves end up crunching under foot

where her offsprings shoot from those soils

and anthills send out armies to swarm her body

her gnarls of fungis and barks cracking and peeling –

i cannot stand to stand under her so long so

I grab some bark, get a lungful of sagey air

and leap up to her first saddle.

Poetry

the boxers

respirating muscles with muzzles

and glass eyes all brown irises

with claws on paws and wriggle-stick tails

that bat the deck rhythmically –

laying splayed facing

lapping each others fuzzy faces until

when a friend happens along,

all attenuated ears and lolling tongues,

that muscling balancing

on those wobbly hind legs

momentarily bipedal you eager woofs –