Out of Greek myth, she
Glowed at the party and proved,
Stories I had told.

The tamed light describes
The counting of the moon,
It softly burns the white
Shadowed walls in my loft,
Foot falls sound in the cramp,
The dry creeks spell black,
The spinning clocks twine
As the river drains, staining
My pebbled rug.

                                 Sea birds
Cry from the other roofs’ top.
The muffled baying sound
Circles with the roiling fog,
A commotion of vapour swells
In my floating clouded minds
Eye, youth springs at night
And old age, ropes a dry well
In the merest morning.

She took the flower that she loved,
Planted him in the burning sun,
A desert formed around and the morning dew,
Were tears the flower cried,
It nearly died.

She took the flower that she loved,
Brought him near, into her house,
Her house was cold and dry, with no light to see,
The flower could not leave,
It nearly died.

She took the flower that she loved,
Found the place where he belonged,
Without walls, in shade of sunshine, where flowers bloom,
In peace they bear no pain,
And rarely die.

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 waif voice
Would purrmurr, did 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.

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.

Streams stealing away,
River clotted with salmon,
  .  .  .  Red handed otter.

Blooms of hair, shimmers and starlight,
Face of dream, gathers in lighted loom,
Wakes of morn, spotty forest fawn, child
To magi moon, maid of golden orchards,
Of faraway seas, world opened vastness,
Temptress of foreign fruits and the giving
Sun, where blue, blood oranges old, ripen,
The dark vines grape of ancient olive, red
Lamb and wine.

What enchanted lands are you made of?
Where the diving seas of dolphin, sponge
And whirlpool weave, wherein Gods must
Have loved and making you, left this earth
In beauty and peace, burnished with dream.

Yawning dreams, slate hues,
Mystic shout mournful mountains,
  .  .  .  Connemara blues.

Her fine hands are gentle
With lithe and spiny fingers
Of bone and fin.

Her eyes are opal,
Essence of emerald and topaz,
A hoard of treasure.

Her hair is sea gathering
And dances in the blue currents
Deadly as the sea snake.

Her skin is coral,
Made of mineral and sorcery,
A fatal beacon.

Her lips are urchin,
Set in a whirlpool of face,
A spiral of doom.

Her voice is dream,
Rocking the lost wrecked ships,
Ground into sand.

Her long tail is fable
Of paradise, beyond faraway seas,
Cyclones and waves.

Winter fantasia—
Wolves and loon moaning full moon,  
Snow white swans landing.

Rite of birds swirling,
Superstitions in mid air,
Black cat in garden.

Keats' love, Blake's horror,
Awful symmetry— beauty,
Blinding as the sun.

Lone piper in pub—
Guinness waiting to be poured,
Blarney and glad dirge.