Night in this field of snow
the dark crushing cold
how long this winter
that’s come again
how long the spring
river that slowly wends
the heat and sear of summer's fever
the bruising cold of this November
how long for us to mend?

Tree, I have come to shelter and with the rain to weep
I am soaked, barefoot with mud running through
soft the moss, cool and cold
to soothe my heart that bleeds.
Our waxing nights of love and moons
now fallow, a field that burns
****** our hollow bed
of haunting, silent screams
too soon the fiery devil
too far my lover
the spring.

Walking through the cottonwoods
along a blue-green sea of reeds
the spring pond ripples
with ducks and coots
glint of red on wings
the singing blackbirds
silver minnows flash by
and wriggle in beaks
of fisher birds, so swift
the time to live
and die.

I am counting things
at night numbers, dreams
hum of a hundred bells
soft harps to soothe
sweet with birds colored blue
in the tiger grass, big eyed cats
twitchy whiskers and paws
they sleep beneath tree limbs
branches wild and gnawed.

Do not wake me
while the garden is glowing
a thousand flowers in rows
I am fixed on violets
hydrangeas indigo blue
with fingers I paint thick
brick in red rose variants
on the lawn peacocks in resplendence
with monde blue-green iridescence
and a million gypsophila clouds pass by.

I traveled through lush greens
mountains of moss, sinking soft
wild in the woods you went
swooped and flew
singing songs
of blue water
of morning colors
in the light of sun
with dreams of moon
my bird.

Dark water
of other countries
wild northlands
the splashing sea at night
bump and rocking of water
tangle of ropes and nets
swell of waves list and blister
splinter like thorns, swelling of wood
safe a place to anchor
these stars between clouds
maps, little sparks
to guide us home.

I will wake
very soon or later
blue in the water or sky
sleep in downy feathers
plummet, I fall or fly
what is real, speak and feel
awaken from sleep
now the time
before
I die.

For this bird
these woven feathers into web
of silken sage your home.
Silent you sleep, soon slips
the shell and falls the day
the evening of your life
with monsoon winds
your wings of flurry flutter
tiny flash barley seen
heart of ruby
feathers of
green.

Tonight the wind
the pouring rain through trees
hiss and whistle of kettle
water poured for tea
the lashing winter willows
this coal, dark storm that blinds
and hides away your face
and any trace of moon.

a million birds singing
the wind warm as sun
all the branches glowing
we wait the buds to come
the bending leafy willows
brush the melting pond
of blue green water
beneath the cold dark earth
roots encased and safe
breathe green where
flowers form.

Who writes of me
without pad nor pen
or scribes with sharpened knife
a belly of lies unfastened from sheath
deep that bores the core of heart?
Illusions swift they swim
in waves as shoals
spawned from
tiny minnows.

Early in the dark hours
where no birds have flown
before the flicker and hum of stars
silence where daylight sweeps away
the cold occluded moon
amid a barren white velvet
a silhouette of trees
caked in winter.

In the rain forest we heard the first birds
stood amid the cooling spectral fog
walked upon the spongy ground
the layered earth of moss and mud
along the path and further on
came streaming rays of sun
that silver lit the wild paphiopedilums
smiling toward the sky
a shine of silken stars.

I am green in these hills
I wait all spring long
wait through grey rains
too early for summer flowers
I dream of sun fields brightest yellow
my heart a wild field that burns
my lips are paper seeking water
desolate in this desert
your lips now merely
a mirage.

Today
it was felt
in heart
it came sharp
a knife
a hammer
deep the ache
the numb
that tries to escape
the resurrection of the fire.

All the blue of day slipped quietly away
the glass of the lake with little winds
waved the sun to sleep, rippling in steely colors
drowsy with glints of gold.
The pines soon went black as birds
and in the darkness disappeared.
At the closing of day
a lone call faintly heard,
a sadness, the weeping of a bird.

In this moment I am water, grey rain
I cry with trees, and all the streams running.
Fog and clouds, a twist of branches overhead
my mind, a loop concentrically swirling
a trick, the swoop and slip
the black and falling birds
scream of skies unraveling.

Some days, this desert
under spells of sun and moon
think, I brood in fields of agave blue
the angled sun blares sharp to parch
to dry, to crackle leaves to dust
tricky this prickly pear cactus
bitter thorns laden with
impossible blood sweet fruit
while high and seen out the corner
of my eye, the half moon smiles
beguiled by the sun.

On days like this
cool, with little winds
desert birds forage for sticks
they build nests perched in cactus
some build green in palo verde trees
always I think of baby birds in spring
hatchlings, the fledglings that fly
I travel far beyond the noise of towns
watch the movement of cooling clouds
the roundness of rain upon the ground
the grey banked scurrilous skies
of hurried birds, their silhouettes before a storm
daisies that close, cold amid the stones
beneath where snakes and lizards go
slither and crawl in this landscape of saguaros
and I, ever tethered can only dream to fly.

All day long with clouds and birds
greens and blues moving through the water
I wish my fingers were water color crayons
to paint these scenes on leaves of paper
to capture water drops on stones, lighter, darker
the sky, the soft rain I taste
all the ways I lived this day.
In the morning to wake up
deep and breathing in
an ancient forest.

Because our days are straying
and though the nights are spellbound
we are only ever falling away
only ever coming and going.
Near the blue banked shores
we are anchored, bobbing and breathing
the clouds are merely sailing ships
waves of swirling skies.
Upon the tide the moon rips and pulls
stars come to swoon and soothe
floating in the night lands
plush and indigo blue.

In an earth bound dream
found bare and green
blue between moss and splendor
cool and cold, our hands and toes
wild eyed through the mud we climb
these darkened steps
beyond the stars
returning home
to rest our souls
brief a dream before
the sleep of
our rebirth.

In Klawock stands seven totems
and a madman, chanting under ebon skies,
embedded in cedar wood, he is connecting two worlds
a master carver, in a language without words.
Born of the raven clan,
he is tracing ancestry in the wood
seeks the ways of wolf and bear.
Born of water, amid the realms of earth and air
his spirit runs with salmon.

In the sweet of early morning
and only for a few precious moments
I thought of nothing at all
I stared blank at the dim lit walls
in a state between awake and dreaming
only until the startle of the first bird singing.

I saw the sun clinging to roofs and trees
light traipsing through the garden lilies
I heard the chirp and groan of frogs
newly green, all the unfurling fronds
and from the broad leaves
the dew fell sparkling in rivulets
and drank the carpet moss
softly green and splendorous.

In Ireland, sea swept and green
against the wind, this mast, salt lipped and bent
by the mad skipping white caps
farther out - the gray fading ships
closer in, the tiny bobbing boats
amid misty fog they float
nets and fish, heavy they list
the watery wilds
toward home.

In the evening comes the dim light, the swooping away of day,
the blue, gray clouds, the turbulent air of wild birds
small specs, black and disappearing.
After awhile only quiet,
and then a certain silence settles in
it moves like fog, alongside the moon
it comes cold, blanketing the soul
a depth of space unknown
a well of darkness, undiscovered
the losing of this day, this light
and in the long, lingering hours
dwelling in the dark caved places
touching the soul and flooding the heart
the crashing waves will come
to break one wildly apart.

In this park there are birds atop ice cakes
stiff mittened kids, cold nosed and half froze
they slide on paths of glass, toward home.
A small stream cuts through this place,
black water humming with coots and ducks.
Long toothed icicles waiting to impale the earth.
Beneath our feet, we crack and shatter tiny frozen ponds,
revealing muddied blades of grass, green as in summer.
A myriad of birds in the sun, come to puff and quiver,
but soon the mountain clouds will come to shroud
the day, the sky so cold, a frost in grey and silver.

I felt like wind, void of soul
transient, moving thing
all the blowing around
with waves and shores
under moons and silent,
awaiting certain suns.

Only a sound outside the window
chimes and bells, nothing to grasp
though felt, a warm wind,
a chill splitting cold.

With crying seagulls, salt tears of spraying seas
this rugged coast of obelisk ancient stones
black blowing reign of squall and fury
the swallowing of sand and shore
tonight a ghost, a murmur of moon
the pitch grows ever darker
fretful wrath of wild ocean
awaits the calm to come,
the bright startle of
tomorrow.

There is a holiness in the wind
these wisps of diaphanous clouds that fly
always I smile in the gentlest of winds that kiss
oh, but I do not like the harshness of winds that whip
how they come to blow the hollow of darkness
toward the light again, things buried underground
places - like death, the stabbing pains
I've met, awakened while
seeing and feeling.

Fallen leaves, mud and trees
roots, willowy dark and deep
tangled and moving through the water
legs and feet, the moon-green heat
August's fiery stars, the red blood of mars
fretful season of fires and floods.

I think it quite strange living here walled by this house
when I was wilder than now I lived in nature
stalking birds and pollen laden things
always my toes in sands or hot footed in summer.
I was in love with the sky, no matter the weather
in storms I hid beneath branching cedars
sleeping on mossy pillows, in the woods of my backyard.
I never gave much thought to houses then, I only went there
to sleep or eat and waited to leave again
waited for an inkling of sun to warm the cold grass
spent days climbing trees, red plums and cherries
I imagined that's how life would always be,
living outdoors under the sun or clouds
wet with rain, always picking flowers.

In the trees, through the leaves came crescent shadows
tiny silhouetted scooped moons upon the ground
without sound, black the round disappearing sun
in ways it came highlighting the shining of souls
and felt around the globe, shined like gold, like silver
like our shimmering days of lakes wet in rain forest waters
you and I on a path coming together, moving further and further
traveling through woods and smokes, traveling home
with a head full of smoke and eyes that cannot see me
my love I am truly in the fire.

Like water running, strange requiem
things I can't recall, though deep in soul feel
these skies, these burning lives
we are wild in the fields
only a sun, a storm, the rain
passing by.

Salt rim and cake
we ate and drank
drowned and sank
our souls and bodies
wet washed in this lake
too late to wonder
we wandered
another day
away.

In death, perhaps we are like water
making our way ever deeper from sand and sky.
Maybe we fly, linger and hover awhile
and the dream of becoming a bird is real.
Maybe we are stars, floating oceans of night skies
moving toward divine light in swooping waves
pushing upwards through embryonic waters
spilling over the soul
again and again.

From mud walled homes
these remnants come, artifacts of shell and bone
leather shoes and deerskin coats
woolen blankets and woven rugs,
baskets for storing grain and corn.

Grinding stones and sun bleached bones
antiquities and memories found in fields of sand,
necklace beads of finest hammered silver
now forgotten and lost, and too the river's water.

Came a sorrowful war with bullet guns
that pierced the heart of every man
no match for shooting arrows.

Living on the ocean as I do, I hunt fish and mollusks
my kin are otters and whales, wide eyed we dive
the night waves, soft in lullabies
in a sea dream, starlit and moon cradled
my lips are sparkling and salt flecked
my eyes wide awake from sleep
in a myriad of visions these sea colors
all my days, swum in a variance of blues
oceans deep and streaked in silver shoals
the day skies fade and die, into nights
plush and indigo blue.

I play guitar unpolished
red rust of my finger tips, bleeding
no school for this, still I wish
I'd somehow gone or sang with
my mouth unbound and loud
sang like a deep well of bells
that rang each day and I had come to listen.

In spring with green buds
I dream of flowers, the silk petals of your lips
the flashing of butterfly lashes
soft upon my flesh
kisses flitting soft winged
across my face
in a myriad of colors
we'll create.

Clear water, drinking in - earth soaked
purple violets and fiddle head ferns
cold bulbs and garden tubers, buds and flowers unfurl.
The mating clash of birds, their chirpy squawks and words
an aromatic lilac trance in a variance of blue.
Grass and toes, cool and cold
northern winds of spring.

In bars wandering amid the metal and cages,
amid the loud banging of voices, dull as broken bells
rung from the sloshing of drinks, in shirts red inked with wine.
Smoulder and fog, cigarettes now drawn and dead
down this cold alley of vagrants painting nightly,
wildly until dawn.

In this city house amid the screaming sirens,
here in the whirling of paper and garbage
I hear the banging of trucks over broken roads,
low rider stereos, their deep boomed, throaty moans.
Here in this strange forest that flies with cactus birds
alluringly they sing in secret symphonies,
before the howling chorus of coyote calls,
the rising magnetic moon, a mountain flower
pink blushed that fully blooms.

I cannot write anything, the way my heart tells it
soft in murmurs or echoing loudly as it does
cannot drift the way I'd like, floating free
as dandelion seeds wild in these fields.
I hear words like arrows piercing in.
I feel shocks and waves
the sea that comes to swallow.
I face jangled places
of these fears again
amid storms of grays and clouds
and after the washing rains
the birds come singing, flying.

In Florida
the beach cut in half
cool sun baked cake, one side blue
the other side white in swirling sands
and after the waves of tide left
birds stamped footprints, webbed and wet
disappearing in the afternoon sun
sand art lost and windswept.

This cemetery of broken stones, the gray hanging trees
of moss draping down to the crab grass and leafy lawns.
This silent field of sticks and bones, of breath long gone
tiny grave of an infant child one day old.
Behind this black rusty fence, wrought iron and bent
circling round the dead, a strange cage we'd like to escape
forgetting our fate, we smile and pretend.

Black, hollow world of sky - starless
alone in this darkened room
dreaming of the star showers that fell
last night from your lips
quivering.

These winter trees
cold and shouldering winds
their bending branches unhinge
falling limbs crash and break the snow
further still a secret world of mud and bulbs
that in the spring blooms of tulips and violet mossy lawns
and too, the sun that comes to warm and fills with green the tree arms
this wooded home that breathes with sheltering birdsong.

Outside my door a cawing crow
of blackened wings and indigo
delivered by night's shivering storm.
The wind and winter's howling call,
scattered nests and down the feather falls.
Crack of limbs, cold and bare branched
mesquite leaves and needles spiral to the ground.
In a swooping field he flies into the tallest pines
deep and slow, the trees creak
wild in cello tones.