On paper, strings whorl
simple crayon colors swirls
doomed in attic's dust

-cec

A bell hangs freely from a belt loop ring, stone within, spheres of music resonating deep into a forest ear echo, oscillating into solemn moments of moss and salal ravine's silence, followed by silence, as a fading Doppler effect withdraws into pine trees, taut web threads, sympathetic, vibration's fingers tingling a spider's meditative bewilderment as this wave unfolds through each wooden nook giving way to currents of scented sound having touched glen's fragrance and paw print wells of dew.

-cec

Overflowing, this cistern holds
night rains visited on pastures
seeping into soil as greens unfold
in early morning mists and sky's azure

Rivulets weaving dowse a liquid path
on journey's slip through gravity
in stream's current with its drifting mass
of water-bug boats and smote bound propriety

-cec

A serious worn face
with wandering heart
filled with shy hope
of a world yet to come
but its tardy arrival
pulls ******* taught strings
'till it seems fight or flight
whether autumn or spring
so solemn by day
and still in its night
seeking glimmers of stars
soft whispers, and love
as a moon casts its radiance
thru ink oceans above
within somber place
abides in life's thrall

-cec

I stood over your rank bones today
The enameled name barely legible under
your lonely lichened stone~
Its mouth wide open with an
1855 death date so that I said it aloud
like a trap spring that could
raise you from the dead
Got down on my dandelion knees
pretending I could read your
foreign immigrant war claim and Indian fears~
your cholera lullabies and ****** years
the land took from you building your frontier
like a man immune to cold and wet
Pictured your plowing pains and hillbilly
beard generation swept up in the love you felt for
a woman wearing nothing but soap until I
showered you with my own tears
and wondered if you were prepared
when it was your turn to look up toward
the hole in the snuffbox sky

Written by Sara Fielder © May 2015

Keep sharpening your teeth on my
iron fittings and feeling up my
velvet underground upholstery with
your streetwise alley cat paws and big
gun Remington revolver ballpoint pen
Try to rob these recondite rubies from my
helicopter heart if you can and
follow my complimentary contrail with
your caloric vocabulary until you tire of
my transom and finally bolt like the January wind
I might stay in midnight sight just barely long
enough for my spinnaker curls to furl in twists
around your wrists and make you my
pie in the sky prisoner forever

Written by Sara Fielder © May 2015

A solo crow's morning flight spoke
of castaways and solitary nights
on its wing tip hurried flight
and its mid-air broken croak

Recounting storms as eagle talons
wet in feather drenching dreams
cuts and glide through current's seams
drops to land on earthen patterns

Seemed within its bird-brain canon
day's release from hunger's pang
a weary eye on sturm und drang
to covet worm and bolt on cannon

-cec