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.

Hades

there is this place we hideaway
hidden beneath a thicket
of golden brambles and
beams of star light

dancing sun shards
peer in and
cut us deep pink embers-
wounds yield,
kissed by Passion’s flame-

what of knowing Paradise
only to be cast away- as Lucifer
laments, his punishment, too severe-

Hell would be me
never being able
to find my way
back here to you

Slow evening dim

i burnt myself in the fire
that we had built just to watch
its billows hang in the empty
January air. crisp and clear,
from the Northern Plains,
it tumbles over the trees
of our genteel little hollow.
sounds of Saturday vibrate
against distant wood,
where love and smoke mingle
above and in the midst
of us.

Quandering

love hurts
if you let it

stripping away
the essence of I

becoming the
reality of we

let the cleansing come
i am weary of the old me
and my wandering is the
quandering that finds no
absolution without you

as sure as the steady,
spinning sun,
let this love hurt

Down In The Day

she is not persuaded
by whim or wind,
but by the glitter
of resplendent things.

her mind is a rose
garden, a maze without
walls, always quick
to connect then to now.

she was made for me from
stars and sun, salty summer
sand and all the lilies
of the field. all the lilies
of the field.

sweetpea

she is the
epitome of me

&
i would want
for nothing
but the glance
she gives
in the pulling
away of a kiss

lost in the
mist of dizzy
head swilrlings

at golden sunrise
she is mine
in orbit

&
i take
umbrage with
no living thing
ever again

she is
the better
of me

love drug

Love is the
addiction
to pain.

this is why
addicts run
from Love.

they spend
their lives
escaping pain.

i am in the translucent
slumber
beetles have beguiled
my eyes and
sleep has departed;
for just a moment.

and a moment is all
that is needed
to build
a prison
of perchance.

i will hold out for peace-
whether in shackles
or by the shame
of Conscience;

i am perfectly between
the two worlds.

wayfarers’ lament

i
know
this
running
never
ends

waiting to Fall

ole buttermilk sky,
last dregs of Summer
hang heavy from the leaf.

people start to say,
“I’m ready for Fall”
after the blackberries

have all burned up. wet,
fat clouds float flat-
bottomed across the

sky and we daydream
of dark nights and
cool, crunchy leaves
on the sidewalks.

Parsimony of Life

i am the voices
in my head.

not the fingers,
nor the toes;

my body’s but
a walkin’ dead,

’tis the Spirit
that grows.

love greed

keep your wits about you
bob and weave, bob and weave
avarice is sprung from an acorn,
a kernel, one red cent.

love is a treacherous thing

flinging yourself into the
arms of another stingy sod

tread lightly dear

poetry

what are all these words?

just slice the meat
and watch it
bleed-
drip,
drip,
drip,

until it puddles
into something
meaningful.

hangwoman

at the first
you are inundated
with feigned fulsome.

later, blandiloquence
bequeaths itchy garlands
and laurels around
your neck,

a noose of neglect,
Purgatory for
for the wholly Jilted.

you will find
comfort in the constricting
cords; delight compromises
and fear subsides.

here you are, after all,
on the Gallows Pole.

quarrel

We sat in that spot, just off the park road,
and stared at the water as it slid by,
indifferent to its own chaos. The timid tail
of Winter’s chill still hung on to the outer
edges of Appalachian air. Miniature clouds
puffed from your mouth and quickly
vanished with each breath.

“This Spring is different.”

“Oh no it isn’t, they are all the same.

“They are all green. Always green. And heavy
with white and yellow flower heads bobbing in
wayward West winds. The air is drunk and dense
with the crumbs of carrion love adrift on a breeze,
seasoned in symmetry.

“For every yellow petal you will find
a pink, and for every green stalk, a frothy,
white tumble cloud, spilling up and
over the mountain.”

“This one is different.”

“Oh no it isn’t, just more of the same.”