Park smoked as we walked,
Lost trees of autumn smoldered,
. . . Cold sun in her eyes.
The lone stark bugle cry—
Horn of the great mountain elk,
Ripples down cold through morning
Dusted wood as the mushrooming dews
Drop into dearly waded pools under
Fawning toes of forage and cool
I look for Leo, his tawny dress,
His noble pride. I see him ever,
In silent days his warmth his stride.
Our friendship moved, grew a lease
With eyes sleepy, tempered, so wise,
Always serene. How his soft voice
Would purrmurr would chide and lift
Me from my human daze, my king
This spring is full of remembrances
And mornings that linger with mute
Vibrations and greetings. How, now
I fear the carpets pressed unmoving
And times caress unsoothing. I look
For you, with loving pause, and I cry.
Beyond the massif peaks of Europa,
Above the ancient pillars of Heracles
Where rain and ocean are weaving,
Lays a fabled kingdom born of waves
And noble strands, my beaten hearts
Haunting, the lost, lush sylvan lands
Where Incomparable, dark
Haired women, mythic, of Amazonian
Fairness, side the valleys and moors
Of soon forgotten dreams and secretive
Wolves slide amongst warmed runnings
Of the ram and moans of ewe, where
Way bountiful seas are over spilling,
In octopus and pearly gemmed shells,
The scalloped pilgrimages unfolding,
Where incense burns with under stars
Encased, the lost Atlantean temples
Of Egyptian sands and storied Gaels,
The clad forests of wandering Titans,
Where snow white beaches end forever
Unmapped in told footsteps, castaway,
As was the magi gift of treasured yards,
Enlightenments, of old and golden isles
Pearling the coasts, sailing the sweet airs
Crossing Iberian gates, to Elysian, eternal,
I feel the shrug of the passing winds,
That gather beyond my solemn place,
Where indifferent birds fly to and from,
With only lost dreams, real as her face.
"I shall welcome the majesty of the virgin
Loam, the honour of being the daisies mantle
The goodly fortune to sleep under the golden
Stars who birthed my dream of grace and light.
World, ply my ship and sail it to the seas
Of love, poem and song, I was unworthy
Shaper and so, whereby cold fates decree—
Lay one, whose name is traced in vapour."
Is all concrete below ephemeral skies,
To think what is now as already made,
Riding lone, the plateaus of a minds eye,
Or is whole of nature purest esplanade?
I saw a hunter by a country road,
In tandem with me he sailed as I drove.
His hoody-head set monkish to the soil
Conjured up music so soundful, sacred,
And I unmoving over a tired flesh—
Coloured vehicle felt naked and dead
For he so saintly robed and dressed to kill
In the colours of the sky prayed with wings,
My harrier, his eyes cleansed purity and gold
While mine unsightly piebald pale and blue.
But want of food dovetailed two craving
Creatures, yet, over fed I felt rusty
Below his steely hunger and what saving
Grace God might offer either mice or men.
Novice, heed my diction—
The learned, the schooled, the politic,
Are but fools with conviction.
Her eyes were cold sun,
Red hair shouts our love undone,
Maple leaves falling.
Coastal mist and mountains blue as ache—
Troubled waters in midair, streaming across
Such mirage of openness and tangled range,
When will the gathering skies sing me aloft?
Backward-man loves his dog.
Ties him up before and after
His walks, likes to goad his pet
Too, speaking as the weather wails
And howls then dog looks down,
Sad on his master dumbfounded.
A chain is worn as it scrapes
The ground connecting dog
To his master. They both love
The sound of it hissing as it strikes
The concrete pathways, sometimes
Man and dog feel free, not a part
Of each other, the chain may break,
And fear is for forks in the road,
The rusty pockmarked grip of his links
Have always been there on walks
Ahead and behind though it makes
Things confusing as if in a dance
And sometimes they wonder which way
They might end up after all—
And when the dark and golden
Rope, as always, is finally tied
To some old fruit tree, the man
Is happy his dog has both sun
And shade, but also has joy watching
Dog beg for ripe apples he cannot
Reach. Some people might come
To think that dog thinks those apples
Are not for eating. Everyone loves
Fruit, don't they?
Backward-man built his dog
A house as cold as a three-
Storied barn, out of things
He could not afford, things much
Too good for dog to not care
About, maybe man built dog's
House for himself, he cannot
Really impress his dog.
Backward-man likes to think
He knows what dog is saying.
Barks and whimpers have deep
Meanings, 'world is a good place,'
Dog says, but when pooch says,
'World is cruel,' crying, disobedient
Whines gets him a serious kick
Out of old anger from backward-
Man. And man can be a hell-
Hound on his own, the way
He twists and unravels the things
He needs, like truth and food
And love— that goes without
Saying for backward-man hates
His woman, but loves his dog.
Rain falls in garden,
Little drops of tawny warmth,
A downpour of birds.
In the dark room
Whispers of the sun
And silence blankets the sky,
I was born amongst the ruins
Of gentleness and wounded love,
By the dug kurgans of the Amazon,
The brands of rains ever burning
And foils of hope, fated, turning,
An outer beast eyes and howls,
The merciless stars ever sweep
And cowl in coldest sparkle flame,
Merest minded words, fainted, stab,
Drop in the down volumes of space
Evaporating under the brooding
Snowy white and blue,
Mountains behind crow alone,
. . . Winter still appears.
Gentle Gods playing—
Rain drops falling on still pond,
. . . Ancient melody.
Lune in still water—
Under my bridge of long night,
Judgement moon above.
I was unaccustomed to keyless locks,
Nor the binding doors
You set ajar, like a teasing shock,
Bled deep in the chambers of the heart,
Where the arteries of your hair played on
And strung my out to fry,
Until my hands were roped and singed raw
Spurned in the chambers of the heart.
I was deserted, lost, run aground, drowned,
By the ocean of your eyes,
Wholly held, captive in loves ghostly mansion,
Boned alive, in the chambers of the heart.
Birds fly to branches,
Food, shelter, dreams just waiting,
Blueberry picking was no chore.
In the hoary-head of blue things,
Stuff was easy, and ripe for the picking,
Bunching blue-baubles in baskets over-ripened
Of berries. On special mornings, due southwest
In lazy hills, round my home, — bells
Were breaking, in quiet sections of the Canton,
Massachusetts woods, and playing by them,
We rounded blue notes, some friends and I,
Plucked-out tunes to the breeze, on leafy-
Instruments, and pulled our weight, into moil-moisted
Bushels, (one batch of blue was more than a ton
Of any other fruit!)
Toiling, till the sky would peek
And spill its hue. Foragers were we, as teaming
Minnows round a polk-a-dot reef, feasting on some great
Blue-Fin’s roe, brave savages, painted in the glow of ember-
Light, of burnished yellows, and bushy-blanched browns
Drenched by dew and dappled in the stipple
Of sun-brushed fire, all the colours making patterns, even
Box Turtles knew. How merry it was we made our labors,
Why it was wicked! And muggy from the heat of cool
Indigo stars, we squenched our thirst, in glugs
Of kisses, each following the greatest by far,
And one soft day, we did notice the crown
Of a Princess, set on top of each full
Noble-blooded faery-pearl dropped
As if to commemorate all
The things that were worth
Knowing, stuff that was ripe,
Easy, and rapt