In the beginning
We spun frivolously
Out from the Center
Limbs dangled in zero
And fingertips grew
From star crumbs
He is knitting
You, boy from
The dust of it all
the year of the bug
we used to share
pillows and blankets
on airplanes, like
lovers or kin
Armageddon
i have arrived at the End of Days
and it is much more tranquil than
i had imagined.
the four horsemen are docile
adversaries, more apt to hurl
a strident word than a sword
and the fires that have beset the world
do not burn our keepsakes
though the smoke permeates our space
our gold does not tarnish
and we will not lose a single
day together because of Armageddon.
the next race
the shoes are a little worn
and my left side is prone to cramp
but if you are the one
(and that you are)
lace up, honey
the race has just begun
Tones from the bubble
i remember music
played live in crowded
sweaty rooms, sweet
with its bouquet of old
beer and lacquer
and the murmur of too
many bodies in too small
a space. i remember when
you looked a man in the
face and a handshake
was never shunned.
people are cowards. an army
of intelligence bested by
intentions, precautions.
it was said the enemy is invisible
so rather than talons the Creator
fitted him with line graphs and
statistical telemetry.
now while we wait
we wait
for nothing
the bars will never wash
the beer out, though they
will try. they will try and
try. musicians will write
about this and you will
listen from a laptop.
nirvana
i am moving to Montana
despite the cliché of it all
i am pulling the stakes
up and going
when i leave it all behind
i won’t ever look back,
i, in fact
never look back
there’s nothing to see
i’ve learned that a lifetime
is a collection of all the
lives we lived
here and there,
this season
and that one
if there’s yet another life
for me to live,
let it be Montana.
used
i used to write poetry
i used to do many things
i used it all up
whatever it was
isn’t she lovely
In the peppered sweetness
of a Wildflower unfurled
Lies the blessed splendor
Of a pretty girl.
Something to behold.
endgame
life
is
whatever
you
are
doing
right
now
everything else is imagination
musing after mowing
scattered around the back pasture
there is crab, St. Augustine, Kentucky blue,
ripples of weed, burr and field grasses,
dandelions, ivy, and honeysuckle,
oak and cherry wood, burrs and acorns,
branches hanging to the ground
heavy with Summer’s first muggy air,
wind and water, heat and humid,
big clouds and patches of blue,
“enough blue sky to fill an Eskimo’s pants”
means the sun will come out grandma
used to say, all of us huddled in the
back of their impressive Lincoln,
the land yacht we would call it,
and an ash tray and lighter available
in every seat, our only battle was who
got to lay up above the head boards
in the back window during nap time,
summers have come and gone, leaving their
marks, some years yield crunchy St. Augustine
grasses buckling under the weight of
our bare feet, and other years, weeds,
stabbing our tender soles, we tread
lightly through those parts of the yard,
still, tonight looms and the heaviness
has left the air, the cacophony of
croaks and whippers flies up as
the sun sinks down and I carelessly spin
the tip of my finger along the
floating ice cubes in whats left of my iced tea.
force it
i have not yet
left this planet,
there is more
to do before
the Man comes
a-callin’.
He wil not wait
for me to finish,
He is coming
whenever He feels.
if you’re going
to have Eternal
life,
get to work.
Firstfire
finespun blue Dawn skies
cold and clear acquiesced to
heavy November gray
she surrendered her expanse
without incident, and drew her
cerulean coattails into the
carriage of night.
it was freezing in that
morning stillness. our first
freeze since Winter.
i gathered some small
logs, chopped and discarded
last Spring – surely due to
some sudden warm snap –
and built a fire in
my wood stove.
i sat here intending to
write a poem, instead all I
wrote was this:
peace is silence.
and put my pen down,
musing at the
warm crackle.
colorland
hues are shifting daily now
pink is orange
blue is deeper
reds are blood
greens are gone until Spring
she is in my sights at daybreak
evening she is there
crowding empty spaces
morning she returns
dancing in steady rising fog
i could watch her for hours
sleeping, standing, being,
or doing nothing at all
i savor the flavor
of the one bathed in beauty
sun rises regardless
and her color never changes
always blonde, always.
she talks of love
life is ebbing
and with it comes
clarity
women have spoken
to me of love
for half a lifetime
i have mused it
and studied its
corners and edges
analyzed its
emotions and
measured what boundaries
i could find
but it was not
until
she spoke of love
that i felt
the blood burn
when love
and body
and lips
collide
she talks of love
like its her
soulmate
and it is,
love was
made for lovers,
it is hers
and she is mine.
never glare
we wait in line
wait your turn
wait patiently
heads down
shoulders forward
marching thru aisles
never glare
never point
never notice
what if someone sees you?
mountains me
when you return
me to the
mountains
you return
me to me
they bore
me in Cities
of men
but my form
was hewn with
granite and marble
my skin stiched
with invisible seams
of laurel and ash
kudzu and Better Boy* eyes
Brunswick stew glued
i am whole
vine ripened
towering beneath
giants, oak and pine
my blood runs
over river smoothed
stones, frigid
but pure,
when you return
me to my
mountains
they welcome me in,
a long lost friend
*a variety of tomato
A Dream Moment Over Coffee As You Were Reading Across The Room
it is a great life we live-
the weathering of a man
the patina of woman
it is a great life we love-
this is the shimmering,
the seasoning of days,
spices from stardust which
salted this fertile earth-
who knew a planet was
filled with savor?
who knew love would
spin from nothing to everything?
universes in a glance
of Sky blues-
the Whirlwind has found
her place to nest in my head-
twirling is something
invoked with a kiss.
it is a great life we live
you and i,
spinning, tumbling, billowing then
crashing against the stone
into cool salty spray
thinning, becoming, blue, gone.
Southern Musings 