trees grow birch and pine so thick
some fallen to this forest floor

trunks turned thick with gray,
half-rotting, reclaim the earth once more
roots like gnarled hands grasping
for the damp

grasses green stagger silent in the wind
blades biting sharply through shadows so dense/
space has no measure in dark

the sun rises, their bloodless meat turned dim,
turning circles in the sky
humidity hangs, building like a cloud
seeded silver to rain

struck by lightning, the forest,
no longer ******, flashes with the intimacy
of death's philandering copulation/
stumps cluster sticky with sap
and saplings sprout no leaves

rings rusted upon rings reddish-brown
slow years no longer lived through

birds are never yellow here
melodies float like water, colorless upon the breeze
wings break the stillness, signal home, repeat

the road turns away, red clay and rounded rocks/
too few lichen-painted orange and green
dust rises
small clouds under cleated soles

you would not like it here

I followed her down the Spanish Steps
her pink dress billowing in the wind
she was Hellenism in motion
the tireless grace of youth

in the plaza I dashed into Keats' house
a mausoleum of dead Romantic poets
and their ever-living verse death masks
decorated the shelves as Byron and Shelley

rose in shadow a lair of brotherhood
rife with premature deaths and ill-lived lives
I peered into Keats' life mask looked up
and in the doorway languid Nike in pink

I handed her a new volume of Keats' odes
she smiled hollowly set the book aside
and searched for wings to flee human contact
missing a head her ancestor guards the Louvre

1.
Angels with gossamer wings
flit heavenward
like bees nuzzling roses
for honeyed perfume.
I watch the angels flutter
higher and higher until
they grow smaller and smaller.
One of them looks back and says,
"You, too, will fly when the sinking
day darkens; when the moon
circles the Earth one last time."

2.
I think how I must free myself
from gravity, from finitude,
from time. The serious day
darkens. I watch it wriggle
into the sea, as infinite
as the sky, it seems, but a richer
shade of blue. The roses
eject the bees, their transparent
perfume wafts over me
like a mystical atomizer; particles
splaying my face, bathing my eyes.

3.
Beyond the sky, in ethereal Elysium,
the Immortals dwell. I gather my life
and cast it at their translucent feet.
They answer only in Greek riddles.
Oedipus wanders among them.
I am as blind as he, sinking into
a sea of shadows. Like a feathered
coral reef, wings waver over
the ocean floor. When the sated
day darkens, they will alight
on my back like petals on a rose.

River birches cradle azure sky.
Snow blankets still-green grass.
Winter paints with ivory brush.

brilliant sky
trees grasp the sun
January warmth

(For Mary Oliver)

In winter much of the living hibernates.
The dead seek out warmth.
Birds sing only in treetops, serenading
the world beyond. Let us soar to it
on the white wings of your poems.

You have said that one day we shall
live in the sky. but our consolation now
is the green earth, draped in snow.
Our footprints fade as soon as the sun burns down.
You left us in brightness. All your poems
embraced goodness, love and light.

A blanket of feathers covers your grave.
Beside them, a silver pen shines,
the instrument of grace. You wrote
more than we could absorb, more
than our mediocre minds could imagine.

You blessed us with the whiteness
of wisdom. We yearn to follow you
and the tree-top birds into the sky.
For now, we must feed on your alabaster
poetry, nature's hidden calligraphy,
spelling out our names.

Alice tumbles
into wild wonderland
looking glass stares back empty

1.
You speak the word
that will hold back
death, muffled along
the forest path.
I seek a clearing
to hear clearly
what was said.
I seek an opening
to liberate
meaning. Nothing
shows itself, save
the flittering of birds.

2.
The poem is not yours to keep,
nor the others, who so eagerly read.

It belongs to the earth,
fated for the forest floor,

sifted through mounds
of leaves, yellow and brown,

buried by a hiker's boot,
unwilling to be found.

3.
Poetry fortifies the bond
between spirit and breath.
Each verse an exhale.

Poems dwell in the dank forest,
silent, thick and dark.
Our hut hovers high in the sky.

In the sky, exhales dissipate.
The word thins, death thrives.
Poetry fortifies the final whimper.

blue assembly line
dull labor, faceless workers
slaving for robots

He rides the waves and waves
of consciousness, mimicking
the movements of the mind
with vital, kinetic energy.

Nature has been his mentor.
He lives in an ancient bamboo
forest on the island of Maui.
He cultivates towering trees.

No punctuation mars his poems.
Only the natural pausing
of breath, visceral rhythms,
all in one, a fluid dance down the page.

He has won every prize except
the Nobel, for which he is long
overdue. He studied with Berryman
and translated Lorca. His poetry transports,

an exercise in Zen. All is fleeting
for him, yet he preserves the past
in the present. Love, joy, serenity
permeate his poems. He is a master,

awaiting his students. He does not
have many years left. Now is
the time to read him. Now the time
to climb his trees in search of wisdom.

Experience absorbs mind, shapes its ethereal body.
The invisible encircles the straining atoms
of thought, expands until there is space
to fill with my mind as your mind.

Your heart shatters
like a plate of china
smashed against
a grungy tile floor.

Pieces scatter like spiders,
impossible to retrieve,
impossible to rebuild,
impossible to contemplate.

Your heart is bruised, bleeding
drops of unrequited love.
The viscera of your body
tighten like a noose. You could slide

your head into it, if you choose,
but what would be the use? Love flees
like deer bounding in a forest.
You are too broken to give chase.

Yet the heart yearns
for completeness;
it is the foundation
of all desire.

Like a baby's cry
in the night, the heart wails,
begging to be heard. Echoes
permeate the dampened air.

So listen: You must breed
a new heart, with new desires,
tightening it together with
a titanium plate. This wound

will not be opened again,
though it aches and aches
in your jaded memory.
Let poetry be your guide; its love

is eternal; it seeks the ideal;
it comforts the sorrowful;
it inspires the helpless mind.
It raises you above the broken pieces

of existence. You have the choice:
Live or die, wallow in remorse,
or claw your way out of your battered shell.
You can decide now: Let poetry be your new heart.

It will not bleed.

Your smile radiates joy,
the brilliance of your heart
beaming from your face.
Your smile invigorates the sun,
the rest of the universe jealous.

Take a capital V,
balance it on a lower-case l,
rivet the pieces together,
and you have created Y,
an outdoor sculpture
made of polished steel,
that gleams in the noonday sun,
and beckons children
to climb its two slick branches.

Y makes tripodal creations
look anemic. Y towers over
the Earth, casting on the lawn
its skinny shadows that move
as if mimicking a drunken W.
No other letter is so susceptible
to toppling over as is Y.
The heavy V outweighs
the straight-up l, 2 to 1.
Gale-force winds can twist
it on its axis. It can be uprooted.

Even when it stands tall,
Y often comes in last,
at the end of words,
a fractured exclamation point
missing its downward dot.
Y waves its arms for attention,
but it clings to the lower-case l
slowly, coolly, gently, lonely.

Y has only Z to talk to,
a self-cloning, open-ended
triangle. Y never knows which
end is up. No matter.

Outdoors, Y continually invites
purposeful play, a standing
funnel of fun for all.

It gleams in the noonday sun.
It beckons children to climb
its two slick branches. That's
why Y rises up, never alone.