running choking,
blinded,
through emotional streets
of an erupting Pompeii of childhood,
a tidal wave of bile
swept me drowning away,
pruning me through and through
with poison
which I was left alone to digest
the best I could,
twisting my stunted growth
into a dwarf afterthought
in an oversized world
of family.

early one Halloween night
a witch was riding
up to the nearest star.
as she crossed the moon
her broomstick brushed against it,
leaving a trace of magic
that grew,
as magic does.
as the moon rose higher,
its wizard-laced beams
spread over the sky.
where the sky was clear
the broad white rays
blended depth with the darkness
to form a translucent infinity
of seawater,
with flecks of star salt
and evergreen tree seaweed.
where the night was cloudy
sharpened needles of rays
etched a delicate picture
of cameo clouds on a shell sky.
this celestial vision
lasted until the dawn rinsed it away,
hatching its own peacock magic
into the world.

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!!!

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

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

a voice
calls to my mind's ears
from my brain's past
from somewhere in the deep unknowing,
blocked off
and inaccessible
except to it.
its winter chains of words
drag my emotions from me
down the hill
into the little girl I once was
who waits,
her ghost-infected wounds still open
and bleeding lifeless tears.

the world is written
in emotional hieroglyphs
which I cannot read
or interpret.

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

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

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.

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

asteroids
land on primitive earth,
*****
to fertilize a giant egg
into life.

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.

mushrooms
are portal sponges
of sanctifying nature,
absorbing the blessing
of wand-touched ground
to spread their kaleidoscope benediction
over the earth.

dragonflies
are living messages
sent on a milkweed journey
from the lost world
of their origin
to remind the present era
of its duty
to itself.

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

tip-top tree branches lean together
to draw a warm blanket
of leafy roof over the woods,
tucking everything below it
into safety.

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.

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.

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

a new winter world
of rich snow,
a head of fresh cauliflower
with floret trees.

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.

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.

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

one night
the moon shone down on my balcony
in full glory of liquid light.
I was busy.
I thought,
I will see it tomorrow
or the next night.
but the next night it rained
and the night after also,
and when the full moon again rolled around
to the house
I had moved from that place forever.
who would have thought
that I would never again be able
to stand on my balcony
and see the moon?

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

yellow flowers
pushing their color
up from the water's edge,
sparks of suns
brightening the shade.
             but
as the sun moves upon their place,
standing forth into the rays,
eyes opening into a solar eclipse.

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

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.

pine branches
reach toward my window,
friendly visitors peeking in
to see how I am doing.

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

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

I have the sun within me,
a smoldering furnace,
something,
from which something must come.
like the sun
which shoots out flares,
nothing to the inferno of their origin,
my sun of unrest,
forcing outward
jets of formed feeling
that, molded into words,
give an inkling
of that from which they came.

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

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.

a frost forest cameo
fused to a pane
explodes a winter window
into a Wild West
of diamond-spun lace.

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."

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.

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

her verbal glance
turns my soft trust
to stone.
writhing, tortured years
of her hissing criticism
strangle the living love
to be replaced
with a dead space of protection,
freezing my potential
in the suspended animation
of living rock.
aging but not aging,
aging but not growing.
no Perseus
came flying on winged heels
to my rescue
to hold her up
to the polished shield of reflection.
I am doomed to survive
as a moving statue turned inward,
roaming a blighted inner wasteland
of fossilized emotion.

a silver disk
sends storm light
through sunglasses
of grey wool clouds
down an iron atmosphere
to coat the ground below.

spring glints and sheds
off pine needles
from blowing breezes.

books
are intellectual hands
pulling me
from the quicksand of sluggish despair
and tossing me to flight
into the updrafts of the mind.

a string of pearls
lies across a silver jewelry box
under the streaming rays
of a full moon,
the silver of the case
and the moonlight
combining
to enchant the softness of the pearls
into drops of congealed cream.

escaped from streetlights' tyranny,
the moon laces apparitional silver
through a blue silk sky,
creating spectral branches
from a real world mirror.

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

dawn
settles on a roof,
softly feathering it
with light and air.

mushrooms
are nature's surprise gift
in the package
of a day.

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.

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