Same Old Story

orphaned over
and over
and over
as great ocean waves
crash relentless
underneath
an ashen
blasphemous
moon,

a pair of siblings
ancient forlorn,
wildly wrestling
emerge on a beach
like starfish stranded
or faded bleached
echoes of salt,

torn up, tousled
and worn,
catching merciful
breath they wait
for redemption’s
late feigned
impotent reach
in the wet sopping
cold weary night.

Saturday on the '405' (for Keighty)

‘you don’t know how lucky
you are babe…back in the USSR..’ (The Beatles)


hey happy day,
hey hey hey!

these radio songs take you away,
even the freeway quite frantic
has on its mind fun gigantic
as you sing, steer and sway
at sixty or eighty dodging
those Kias, Tundras
and Dodges,
weaving your way north
to LA where your daughter
post-op retakes her day,
gets ready to study
banter and talk,
make sweet music with school chums
she’s missed for two weeks
on busy Bruin walk.

and you chant your song
of pure thanks
for her pink-cheeked recovery
and full health regained,
in gratitude you go fast
tires spin circling grins
do their attuned inaugural dance
for the successful surgical lance
as you’re transported,
perchance exalted,
by this wide noisy band
of instrumental asphalt
playing hit after hit
in ten or twelve lanes.

Hunger's End

myriad doors of uncertain dimensions
opened in dream after dream.

a rogue dervish stands
and twirls at the strange
threshold,
waits forever
for his or her god.

invite the masters, the morons,
blessed mundane buddhas,
mean spirited and midgets,
may all dine at the feast
of true life!

one trembling brave hand
grips a burnished door knob,
turns it twice, twists once
to enter and taste
(not desist)
deep pleasure
of being
right here.

stroll with grace
eyes eager so open
into the laughing
festive great hall,
sing and sup,
dance lascivious
‘til dawn cracks
broken
its first lusty full
throated yawn.

later, haystacks
of piled up celebrants
well sated,
doze deep
throughout
the green day,
idle and snooze
as one creature,
are replenished
ready composed
for the tumult
and throes
of next eve’s
nourishing thrills,
love’s wild
godly
full fray.

COLOR OF HOME

the proud loud shout
of red letter days a’glow
shone like crimson
crayola through windows
of glass and crumbled
walls of gray stone
in the small Ohio town
of these mornings and nights
of repeating deep
dreams where blue river
rapids, old busy buildings
and an ongoing urge
of full lively streets
mix and marry
in a playful splurge
of colorful traffic
and the endearing
motion of crowds,

a beckoning dear city
pictured in affection
hope and belonging,
with a warm cozy home
to enter embody and name,
curious sidewalks for strolling
exploring with ease,
and an enduring life
no longer the same,
to recreate and plaster
with paint from the bright
oozing pallet of Mars--

a sanguine abode
of seamless dreaming,
this gathered up dwelling,
vivid vision on loan,
touched down to earth,
my one and my own!

STILL, LIFE

a plateful of citrus fruit
sits flush on the smooth
tan table,
like happy fat heads
convened for the quiet,
speaks a tart tongue
of tasting
and waking,
tingling
what’s fresh
today
for the taking
and making,
these orange
and yellow
orbs and one
ancient
brown brush
create a bright
lush painting:

seven or eight
contemplative
planets
at play
in a pig-pile
of colorful
prayer.

nice legs

She has nice legs, very nice legs
under her mid-length skirt
as she sits with them crossed
in the gold lit coffee house,

until she stands up and takes
short stutter steps
in shiny black heeled shoes
down the two stairs

out to her car
and whatever the day
ahead holds

in its lucky,
brown muscled
arms.

Sunday,New Day

head groggy, thoughts thick,
formed slow as churned butter,
body dense shoulders tense
and why wouldn’t this be the fact
after a week such as this?

a single crow caws its cry of dawn
as the neighborhood awakens,
takes its Sunday yawn.

guitar music,
brisk air on deck,
me wearing
a warm
blue
sweatshirt,
spacious
clear
silent sky
overlays
all
today.

even the street
is smiling
in its tired
morning stretch.