little old bald-headed tree
stretches bare branches
into the sky,
drawing the universe
into its veins
to live again
come spring.

a torrential river of sadness
flows through me.
here and there
among the churning rapids
glint chunks of emotional gold:
happiness,
contentment,
fulfillment,
strength,
peace,
waiti­ng to be caught
and hauled to the shore
of my consciousness.

high in the treetops
spindles of sun-gilded leaves
spin wind
into songs of the trees
to share
with the world.

bored leaves
play charades on their tree
with sun and wind,
becoming dark targets
of rustling emeralds
shot through with diamond bullets,
or lanterns
soothing the steel blue fear
of lowering clouds
with a soft glow of hope.
shears of sun
cut green tinfoil leaves
to shimmer around
a dance floor of wind
until evening
quietly melds
a puzzle of lumpy whispers
into a whole.

the *****
is an itch
that I could never scratch
until now.

butterfly, butterfly,
ready to emerge at last
from years of false starts,
breaking through blind threads
of the cocoon
that has always held you rigid,
struggling through old and brittle bonds
which will not easily unravel
into a trembling, mangled
earthquake of universe
with nowhere stable or still,
trying to keep your balance
to flutter through storm-tossed air
and moving debris
until you can find some place
to land
and take the next step
to metamorphose
into yourself.

the sun
of the present
breaks through the clouds
of the past.

young trees
gaze skyward,
their branches thick
with a visual feast
of floral shish kabob
prepared in sunshine
with a rain marinade,
a treat
of the season.

a cupped bush
holds a fresh-fallen sundae
of creamy new snow
topped with sprinkles
of tips and leaves.

framed in a roof window,
a tree
plays a symphony
of motion.
the trunk
conducts the separate sections
of branches and twigs and buds,
blending them together
into one harmony of movement.

horses
shine their sight
into the dark crevasses
of my hidden being,
flushing the petrified turmoil
from the arteries
of my emotional life.

a day
is a temporal dragonfly
disappearing
into the wide-open spaces
of infinity.

A November tree
spins a spider's web
of branches
silvered with a dew
of morning sunlight.

here stood a pine tree
with broken parts,
abruptly removed
for the safety of all.
no time to say goodbye,
leaving only a headstone
of perfumed white stump
heaped with flowers of wood dust
and neighbors waving their branches
in funereal hymns of wind.
it loved to chat
with the other trees
and was a friend
to the neighborhood
it is missed
by the squirrels and the birds
and me.
rest in peace.

sharp knives
of alien family systems
cut my emotions
to pieces
and hang them
on hooks inside of me
to rot.

a calendar
lies in the corner of a table,
forgotten,
two weeks into the New Year,
its simple pencil sketch at the top
showing at an angle.
late at night
a noise can be heard from that corner,
the sound of protesting sobs,
and a little voice
can be picked out here and there,
"all the other calendars
had pretty scenes
of mountain lakes and forest glades.
now they are all gone.
someone has taken them
to hang on their wall.
and I am still lying here.
nobody wants me.
my big, clumsy letters
are clear and dark.
a child could read them.
and my large, awkward boxes
have plenty of writing space.
I am the best calendar around
and could help someone greatly
in their struggle
to remember their place in time,
if only someone would stay long enough
to see what I am
and not what I look."

a thick delicate hairdo
of tall grass
blows in the wind
over its sidewalk,
crowning it
with glory.

running
to keep up with the sun
as it moves around
from room to room,
trying
to dip my sunflowers
in a golden spell
of life
to let them weave songs
of yellow and light
in a visual symphony
into the air
of the whole apartment
until the last ray
fades into the wall,
leaving behind
a basket of flowers.

poplar leaves
spin wind
into the music
of the woods.

I bear a hard ball within me,
swollen with disease
and alive with pregnancy,
an alien thing
grafted onto me by another
and grown into me.
its numerous offspring surge outward
in crusty, scratchy waves,
flooding my system with infection
and attaching themselves to my being
to run my innermost workings
by remote control.

needles of terror
pierce my emotion sacs
which leak and spill over,
staining my intellect
and distorting my vision
to see only impossible choices
which drive me
into emotional psychosis
totally divorced
from reality.

wet furry caterpillars
of sleet-heavy pine branches
bend toward my window,
seeking to crawl
into the room.

a dark emerald mass
of a thousand
mottled leaves
sparkle
with sunlight sequins
as they rustle
in the breeze.

pine trees
sprout frail tan candles
pushing up
from a thick scratchiness
of needles
as an affirmation
of another year's renewal.

branches of a bush
weighted
with fairy bridal bouquets
bend into a bower
for the wedding couples.

straw
covers a raw wound
of new dirt,
where a tangle
of bushes and weeds
was ripped out
to soothe the sensibilities
of human aesthetics,
leaving behind
grieving trees
to mourn their neighbors.

distant apple trees
in full bloom,
white popcorn brains
that will soon burst
to reveal their kernels
of fruit.

turrets
of dandelion leaves
stand guard
over a peasantry
of grass.

chestnut trees
raise lamps of flowers,
kindling floral flames of red and white
to guide the planet
into summer.

ice sculpture trees,
silhouetted against the sun,
scattered from Fairie
on cold winter winds
bear fruits of icicles
as they die
back into reality.

a rocky scab
cuts across my center,
weighting down my soul
and slicing me in two,
shrinking me
to half-size.
a crusty stone top
caps off a mysterious blackness
of simple existence
and no intelligence
where none has ever been,
where shapes of smoke
glinting through the darkness
gather strength,
swirling against the sides,
bulging it upward and outward,
as a something
strives to unite with me
and break through
into the light of my being.

my living room window
frames a picture
of divine reality.
arboreal Hindu gods
of pine trees
spread their branches of blessings
out from sunlight-carved trunks
and the Halloween night oak,
devoid of leaves,
its spread piercing the tangle of background,
makes its grey skeletal comment
on the green lushness,
while human afterthoughts of telephone poles,
go about their mundane business
as usual.

spring glints and sheds
off pine needles
from blowing breezes.

bare stalks
nurture liquid crystal berries
of raindrops,
glinting fertility
holding the fat
of the earth.

squirrels scamper
along the ground
from tree to tree,
living shuttles
weaving the natural world
into the human one,
creating a paradisiacal pattern
of yard.

my bicycle
moves over
a clean slate
of white-snowed sidewalk,
its studded tires
sculpting a piece
of modern art
out of winter
for the city.

sunflowers glisten
from a windowsill basket,
bright butter
melting into the light,
enriching it
and dissolving a little
of the hard scab
within me.

bars of moonlight
materialize through shuttered blinds
to dissolve my pillow
into the prison dimension
of dreams,
slipping in and out
of this reality.

brilliant diamond fire of regret
burns my veins,
my existence diverted
by crushing pressure of lost time
into misery
and not the prophesied joy,
bringing only
the anguish of coping
and the paralyzing fear
of the fire dying
and with it,
life.

ethereal silver
dents the blue tranquility
to produce
a liquid mosaic
with boils
of bubbles
against a harmony
of frogs
wrapping sight
in sound.

melting icicles
are hypodermic needles
injecting spring,
drop by drop,
into the world.

I am anti-matter
filled with the anti-gravity
of imagination
and unconventional light,
born into
an unfortunate family
of matter, dull and hollow,
who create the reality
they want to exist.

my family loom
wove sticky woolen words
that trapped my soul
in vast expanses
of itchy incompatibility,
that wrapped me into oblivion
and fashioned their own puppet
from my mummy.

winter
encases lakeside plants
in thick layers
of frozen white time,
preserving them
for a thousand ages
until spring.

where's my Sweetheart?
can I see him?
oh, no, honey,
your Sweetheart's gone
a long time now,
10, 15, 20 years.
you can't see him
ever again,
so you've got
to forget him
and move on.
don't think of him
or cry,
just move on
like he'd want you to
if he could tell you.
it wasn't your fault
that he couldn't
go with you
when you left.
you had to leave.
and he found another
and forgot you anyway,
so do the same
and just go on.
you can always find
another cat.

pine needles
ride roller coaster branches
up and around in the wind,
flashing their sunlit outfits
of furry green diamonds
as they wave to the earthbound world.
wheee-eee-ee!!!

a thick syrup of sunshine
spills over a lawn,
chiseling the grass
with spring highlights
to stand in relief
against the anonymous shade.

fragile heralds
burst out from a tangle
of green confusion,
trumpeting the morning to the day.

flames of red leaves
burn a trail
through the forest floor,
setting the ground
alight with cold fire.

a cloud of dragonflies
softens the November air
with fluttering fireworks
of light-glinting gauze,
reality meshing into Fairie.