bristly, brushy branches
of a pine tree
reach out
to scrub the surrounding air
after a summer rain

invited into nature's house
as guests,
we act instead
like children in Grandma's house,
running amok
and wrecking it
with no respect
for the fact
that it can't be replaced.
we need to be careful
in nature's house.

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

gnomes frolic
in the branch-cut puzzle box
of a lawn
under the white darkness
of the moon.

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.

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

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

on the distant side of life
I squandered it unheeding,
careless of its passing.
now,
facing a receding mirror
of mortal time,
I count the dwindling years
like a miser.

my mother birthed me
from the reflections
in her family mirror,
to be their reflection
with no substance
or reality.

a patch
of flaming red tulips
burns away winter's body
in the crematorium of spring.

metaphors
are the linguistic warp drive
powering
a language.

reeds
admire their necklaces
of clustered sun chips
in a wavering water mirror
as they gossip
in the borrowed voices
of a rustling breeze.

waves rock
a daytime lake
as scurrying ghosts
slide beneath the surface.

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

dragonflies lie in state
amid faded bones of grass
which keen stiffly
to a summer requiem
carried through the low autumn light
on a rattling train of wind.

a bush
greets the summer
sporting dangly new earrings
of red berries.

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

the wine of family communion
washes me clean inside,
converting my potential
to the tenets of family dogma.
the bread fills me, expanding,
to nourish me out of my image
into theirs:
no questions,
no discussion,
no rebellion,
no independence,
no chance,
no hope,
trained up to become
a member of good standing
of the Church of Wilson.

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

falling down
a feather staircase
to clouds below.

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.

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

autumn leaves
spill down over a roof
to a pocket of yard below,
generous currency
scattered to all who will value it.

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.

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.

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.

blooming masses of purple lilacs,
savory bunches of grapes
for the eye to eat.

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.

the crystal prism of the mind
contains the ever-present summer's day
of memory.

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

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.

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

a dragonfly
partners with the afternoon wind,
dancing their joy of life
to the reassuring beat
of eternal seconds.
an interrupted glance later,
it has slipped away
to somewhere beyond view,
leaving only the emptiness of air
and emotion.

I gave up a life
I didn't know I had
to chase a mirage
of approving family
and human caring
that never was.
now the lake has vanished
into the desert noon of reality
and I am left mired
in the abandoned sands
of poverty.

I  lie here on the path,
my body covered with sores
and my eyes blinded,
but I am Tyrannosaurus Rex
and I shall prevail!
I shall overcome this weakness
that leaves me splayed on the ground
weak as a prey animal
and rise again!
I remember warm, sunny days
when I followed the trail of prey
strong and sighted and pain-free.
I shall be so again!
I am Tyrannosaurus Rex,
lord and master of this planet,
and nothing can defeat me!
not a fireball from the sky
nor this wave
that washes over me as the ocean tide
and pulls me with it.
I am Tyrannosaurus Rex
I will not go!
but...
I cannot stay...

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

tree branches,
wet with rain,
swayed by wind,
glistening silver
in the glow of a street lamp.
                but
moving, creaking in the night,
becoming feathery spiders' legs
reaching out to seize their prey.

the moon
is a perfect pearl
tossed upon waves of clouds
in an ocean of universe.

a section of tree
stands against the steel-grey threat
of gathering October clouds,
its leaves straining
like hounds to slip
the leash of branches
into the Wild Hunt
of the lusting wind,
as their single fellows
scud by through the gloom,
ignoring the supporting rooftops
in their delirious swirl
to freedom.

sunlight
showers sparkles of lemmings
on a ruffling pond,
which the water
herds to oblivion
in the dark hollow
of the shore.

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.

poplar leaves
spin wind
into the music
of the woods.

fingers of wind
braid swirling snow
into the blonde tresses
of a nearby streetlamp.

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

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

as these leaves fall from the trees,
so may my troubles fall away from me.
as the woods are born again in spring,
so may I awaken to new life
from the winter of my regret.

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