I watched
first the thunder
booming, black of storm
All the gathering - flocks, clouds
leaves piled, blew
Windy gray the day deepened
void of birds singing
Breaking branches - cracked the gloom of dawn
all the scurry, dark forest floor so weary
Soon the rain began - a flood
death's pooled lake of drowning
Ashen skies of furry, tumultuous blowing
ripped awake the day
Washing wet the soiled  
stains of blood
my soul

Mourning - you flew over indigo waters,
landing
Stealthy stalker you walked the shallows  
billing silvery minnows
On rust red stilts, you're built
to move in watery fields
Eyes piercing depths of algae blooms
rippled, your swaying seaweed room
Silent hunter,
feathery plumed

On old world wings you've come
through ages gracing wilds
In gardens you hover, humming hawk moth
seemingly like a bird
On beating wings you sing to honeyed flower stalks
a proboscis long for drinking up
phlox and penstemon

You came honey in hand
glint in your eye
sticky sweet summer pie

Honeycombed days, we sang
meadow-ed daisy laughter

Bees on blackberries, thorny fingered reaches
blowing sea grass, sandy toed beaches

You were intoxicating
in your honey house hive
piano keyed, golden heart sighs

Musical notes, deeply toned, hallowed we played
on softest wings we flew away.

I can't say it was what I expected,
(an intimate dinner for two).
When Charlize showed up
with two bodyguards
What's a poor fella to do?

She glides in with the grace of a dancer
which is what she first wanted to be.
Charlize won the "Lucky Genes" Lotto,
I didn't unfortunately.

There I was was, stammering, star struck
blathering blithely away.
She passed a remark about mirrors,
suggesting I use one someday.

She could have been lovely and gracious,
instead she was distant and rude.
It seemed she was still Queen Ravenna
and I was the Burger King dude.

I dropped fifty large for the dinner
A pittance for charity due.
There's not likely to be little monsters
as Charlize and i are quite through

597

It always felt to me—a wrong
To that Old Moses—done—
To let him see—the Canaan—
Without the entering—

And tho’ in soberer moments—
No Moses there can be
I’m satisfied—the Romance
In point of injury—

Surpasses sharper stated—
Of Stephen—or of Paul—
For these—were only put to death—
While God’s adroiter will

On Moses—seemed to fasten
With tantalizing Play
As Boy—should deal with lesser Boy—
To prove ability.

The fault—was doubtless Israel’s—
Myself—had banned the Tribes—
And ushered Grand Old Moses
In Pentateuchal Robes

Upon the Broad Possession
’Twas little—But titled Him—to see—
Old Man on Nebo! Late as this—
My justice bleeds—for Thee!

Behind my father's house
and across the creek
there used to be what used to be
an old mill.

Three black stone triangles speckled green
the carcasses of walls
ceiling free stood stooped around
a stagnant finger of water.

There is something sweet
in what sticks around
after a building fails.