Morning

Eyes puff and scratch

with lids which itch

and leak

like little caves

eking out their

moisture,

my uncombed hair's

a mess, I'm sure--

and what's more--

this morning's pearls

ignore their salted

hidden, somewhat

cloistered source,

a placid, robust oyster.

LOVE, FALLING

as a 400 foot

waterfall over

smooth as

skin gray

granite cliffs--

pummels

carresses,

sings and

screams

all the way

down,

the torrent crashes

like summer lightning

might spear a lone

Douglas fir

or how a mob

of wild horses

resounds, hoofs

pounding across

Eastern Oregon's

dusty earth

and the ultimate,

long awaited for,

splash ---

slices clean and deep

into one freezing

pool, while the

softest mist coolly

kisses our sunburnt

hikers' cheeks,

can you feel

the muse's

liquid

whispers

now?

The lone burnished leaf

floats, drifts down

from this tree

like a solo midnight

thief who creeps

in pure quiet

lands sure on

a small tuft

of earth

to paint a

shimmering

soft heart-shaped

print

where

once

there was

nothing,

not even

a pirate.

Sea Sound

It sounds like the vastest ocean

between my two ears,

or a soft sizzling frypan

of energized air.

The cause tho’ uncertain

could be bio-chemical--

it’s like silence on fire

or summer dusk

in Morocco,

all orangeness and torrid

and somehow synaptic

the swish of salt spray

sounds prolifically

invisible

a bluish ocean

of motion tucked

inside my skull

it laps and it ebbs

hour after hour,

pours plushness

and rhythm

right onto

shore,

relentlessly

scours the

wet sand

of this poem.

time: a slender

fleeting reed

sits still as

thick black

silent mud,

reaches towards

a gaping

cerulean sky--

and all unseen

at eternity’s

silvery threshold,

plants her feet

where in rhyme

she oozes,

then begins

to breathe.

time

time is a leaf

turning turning

in the incessant

impersonal wind.

Song for Heidi

Can you hear snow flakes

turn and sift towards

the ground,

still white flecks speak with

ease, crystal packets

of secret fluff

cold cotton whispers

soft, becomes

meltwater,

too brief aloft we

disappear like

white trails

in this rare

quiet,

shall we drift or ford sky’s

swift current, traverse life's

blue river, sing brave and

wild all way

down?

The Square in Snow

The Square in Snow

tin tempts the metal smith

towards sculpture she does

not yet know, snowflakes

sing a muffled tune as dawn

yawns open its sleepy pink

semi-gorgeous mouth,

accordion music like a stream

flushes cobbled streets fresh

and clean, this crisp breeze

is blessed and old men

hold calloused hands

to stroll

no one is here alone despite

the freezing pristine

whiteness of new snow,

and the statue of shiny tin

elegant in the quiet square,

stands robust faces us

like our recent dream

bundled warm

in this unremitting

cold.

poetry bench san diego

feathery pink vowels and
crates of orange
consonants

run their lean fingers
through the first Sunday

in the grand, green park

of each glorious

poetic

month.

HEALTH CARE NEWS, BLUES

The health of all creatures is never a given,

the grimace today at a pinch in the groin

may in several months grow into cancer,

out in my backyard a plastic garbage can lid

is filled with last week’s rainwater, I watch a

small miracle of life as skinny pink worms

emerge into this world and then swim twist

and slither in silence elastic,

and in Washington DC another can of worms

swivels in ergonomic chairs paid for by us the

too patient populace, these quite well insured

in their eight hundred dollar suits twist the truth

and ignore the needs of millions of people as

they squirm and lie like vermin in a garbage

heap of gavels, snake behind shut oaken doors

to deliver the news (that’s not new at all) that

we must fend for ourselves like the earthworms

out back

in this life and death matter of sickness and health,

their unfeeling edict stridently shouts, drowns out

other voices of compassion and reason so money

alone may give each fragile person the true sacred

choice for life’s sweet water of health when

illness and pain knock on our doors as surely they

shall like flesh colored worms in tepid rainwater.

Home

The faintest scent of snickerdoodles,

(just their name brings a grin)

these hot cinnamon tinged circular

confections just baked by mom

today sings, no shouts, my hungry

name as I burst through the back

screen door into the kitchen's

seductive magic where a small boy's

strong thirst for love is through sweet

treats at least partly sated.

Surprise!

The pleasure of true weather

(this sopping wet seems forever)

sky streams straight down, a cool

balm for droopy eyes half asleep, these fat drops splash and plop,

refresh us clean, awake, inspired!

Third Storm

Rain screams towards earth, her sixth bad dream of the month wakes us both, a wild wind shakes the porch, it’s an angry unfed visitor wired like a bobcat in late July, scrawny and ever vigilant for strips, such thin scraps of flesh or mere attention, it knows in its cold bones affection is out of the question. Weather never cares whether anyone ever arrives home through dark reflecting streets to the fireplace, cozy thick quilt, the unasked expectancies.

Where?

where is the burnished coin,

ancient yet priceless in its

simple pure roundness, now

that the rain is not pounding

groundward?

A single butterfly simply kisses

such a willowy dune of sand, as

a watchful wind from the deep north

sings of rain, woman and man.