With your bottom resting on me
you roam the world of poetry
display spectrum of your poetic mood
ever bothered about this piece of wood?

I hold your frame over day and night
weight of your spirit soaring to height
your struggle to find in all only good
ever bothered about this piece of wood?

I rest your arms on my armrest
for your comfort I do my best
see you don't fall when in deep brood
ever bothered about this piece of wood?

For years my touch has kept you at peace
carried you safe seated with ease
when empty yawns the space I stood
is it then you would realize worth of my wood?

Route 84 would not lend me
the light of a star last night
Radio blazing at 75 mph
nonsense noise to chew gum by
Crackling political commentary
Static of distance and thick clouds
Invisible mountains blocking
Memories seeping through the cracks
coating the music in a film
I rub my eyes
watch myself punch alert buttons
But it’s the angels’ jukebox tonight

Roll down the window
Watch the heat escape

Summer again

I am building a castle of ancient stones
pulverized by relentless tides
Dragged across maps by mastodons
and mammoth glaciers
The scouring hiss
the ocean sighs
Time has lulled these smoothly
rolling them in the softest hands of sand
and gels of life’s comings and goings
tenderly tumbling
in the millionth moonrise—
Time deposits them here
wet and glistening

For the girl with the plaid two-piece to gather
Shoulders sun-burnt barely say
one week only,
one week of the fifty two
“It’s the time of the season…”
and daddies on the beach are watching….

She has chosen yet another stone
And the castle continues—
in oblivion to all but her legend…

     The queen will be safe here
     from the rabble
     The disgraced Tristan will surely seek her
     Among these lofty cliffs
     Between the raging circuit of the tide
     Here winds forbid the vengeful mob
     Here lovers learn
     the debt of love’s bad timing
     “Drink ye all of it!”
     --the potion that assigns our sorrow….
     She will not sleep—
     while I chew this gum--  GUM?

Roll down the window!

Angels escape with the heat
Waking me with the brush of their wings

As that eighteen-wheeler hugs my flank
And leans on the horn
Lights flashing
Rude rumbling under right tires
Tantrum of snow
In the draft of mass and velocity

…and the angels?
They’ve chosen another good one!
They must’ve liked the 80’s
Their wings slapping the windshield madly  
Their hands steady the wheel

He walked the streets a begger
they buried him like a king
he played a six string guitar
he wore no golden ring

She had the voice of angels
survived a valley called death
then fearing no evil
she passed every test

They wrote the songs with sunsets
they walked the line together
they stood in a ring of fire
in love they burned forever

is on thirteen,  hope the ribbon won’t fray.



if it does we shall buy some other.  it is said

that in my job think lateral, i try,

for art’s sake.



yet there is still that straight line, rules

from years of brain, washing.



perhaps programme two, or one.



boil wash.



sbm.

you ever had one that kept haunting you
I saw llamas today in a field
I saw balloons again
to construct my urge
sanely you would have to share my head
When the llamas looked up at me
on the edge of their field
where they were minding their business
munching
flowers and grass and greens
I felt like an intruder
an alien
in their world
and the balloon thing again,
I watched the car dealers early today,
a  man walked with what seemed like a hundred
of them helium filled colorful things, tieing
them to antennas, when one did
escape, a white one, that wafted and floated
into the sky like freedom and relief,
I felt for it. I felt for the llamas.
You would have to
share my head to
see.

the bleats of scores and hundreds of shorn sheep
all trying to find their friends (they do have friends)
in the melee across the fields after being set free from the shearer.
Its one continuous song, will go on into the night, these few very special days in the year. I will miss it when it stops. Like all the songs of nature.
Unique and familiar. I wonder if they hear my poetry.