blushing oleander flowers beckon_inhale my dizzy deadly breath

three ripe figs: maiden-mother-crone
fresh and green, not fully grown
gravid, blushing, ripe allure
nut-brown, wrinkled, sun-matured.

which of these the sweetest be?
high upon this old fig tree
maiden tartness bright and young
full womanhood upon the tongue.
drooping breast and brown age-spots
spurned by youthful hungry thoughts.

adolescent, first one picked
complex taste is not quite fixed.
plump and ready, sun-touched mother
ripe fig flavor like no other
ignored by most, her dried-up skin
sags dessicated on the limb.
with sweetest nectar deep inside.
never plucked and never tried.

white blossom's faded petals tossed aside_a stained petticoat.

do we know whose bold hand proffered the apple?
both languished in paradise, wander and eat,
making love their primary preoccupation...
do we know who named the animals,
the trees and birds and flowers?
when stewardship became dominion..

do we know what knowledge means?
recognizing your ****** seems a small price
to pay for the world of emotion -
lust's sharp intensity,
the fierceness of anger
or a kiss...

do we know the humble serpent
-God's creation- was to blame?
curiosity perhaps, or boredom more likely,
ensconced in a gorgeous garden
living know-nothings
their idle exploration of Eden.

who wrote this story? who made these myths?
what is now an ossified creed was then
a nascent religion; many claiming the one Truth.
beliefs in faith-based fact flourishing -
all the debates on divinity.

the Garden, The Woman, the Snake and the Tree
this account survived, recorded and writ for ages
a myth that may never have happened..
this ancient story lives on to
confirm the sin and
rattle the soul.

long rusty tin sheets dividing red dirt road from home and hogpen

backs of envelopes, lost notebooks, strewn papers, vanished poetry.

errant sulfur butterflies in salt-rusted sea grass after the flood

nascent clover all around
grass so green it burns the eyes.
sulfur pollen on everything
at slightest touch, it puffs and
blossoms into the soft still air
all the windchimes sounding
incongruent harmonies
carried on the warming breeze
all the lovely voices
in unison.

immortal bonsai infused with glycerine on banker's desk.

the gentleman's a patient wolf
he trails his prey so quietly
and plans their quick demise.

his initial fascinations
are figments of imagination-
like melting rainbows, quickly forgot.

an earthy seducer ...
all the tragic ladies
immured in their addictions.

his sharp eye will quickly find
yet another quivering quail
in tallest grasses.

such eager craving -
born of hungry desires
the hunter's instinct

sluggish stroll to red-hot mailbox_sunstroke summer

in green glass bottle poets' narcissus' intoxicating aroma

infused with moonlight, casting sharp shadow_ i hear first whippoorwill

betta circles his glassy world wondering what's beyond the curve

all the windchimes sounding incongruent harmonies in the warming breeze.

jenny wren splashing in her tiny tiffany crystal tub

passionate paeaons of courtship fast-diminishing to domesticated bliss

small flock of doves in velvet sky
seven sisters in the crisp night air
these old girls are hot, blue, luminous
ancient constellation between the bull's horns
a parallax of stars.

the sisters are crones at last
huddled together for warmth
their pale aura a dime-store
blueing trick. their wise eyes
wrinkled as elephants, their
expanding memories ascending
the cosmic ladder
into oblivion

tiny gaping mouths in crowded nest_ red azalea flowers

welded walls surround circle of my world_ abundant lost connections.

four-leaf clover pressed in dictionary_dried up good luck

i hear the cranes again
riding the thermals upward
this warming morning
calling and circling, they
fall into the long v shape
an arrow swiftly northbound

knee-deep red clover_seven deer graze silently along wild-rose hedgerow.

the carrion birds
squabble over red roadkill
greediest bird, more dead meat


( he flew up late
  so met his fate
  fast karma )

dry leaf dances in gentle breeze on a cobweb kite-string

an infant has no words_
the pleasure at mother's breast
warm sweet sticky food love

optic trick_rainbow's vivid prism forever to forever

i see once more
the delicate balance
on the precipice
the stick on the shoulder
bears the run-away pack
with faithful canine
at heel.

at this moment,
before the fool's last step
from crumbling edge
into unknown territory
i would freeze time.
run back the clock
to the previous dive -

as if witnessing this spiral
could stop this passion play...

pink-lipped Spring's pastel party dress slowly falling apart

dead summer
sun shines between my bones
long crooked shadows
how long have I sat here?
oaks shade gave way to yellow

oblique rays illuminate
these dessicated sockets
gilded parched pastures
all dew has been up and took
long before I first awoke

autumn crows' appetite
my earthly flesh plucked away
I hear my heartbeat
thump thump as the rabbit runs
knowing winters frosty breath

the rabbit-catcher's campfire
cannot warm shivering bones
under their dry leafy quilt
all desire is quelled . . .
content with malodorous meat

from this hollow frame
my ice-glazed scaffold
coyote steals a femur
it was mine to freely give
suffering it was his to take

my gnawed bleached bones
scattered ,full transformation
predator to prey
play to the nature of things
sea transience by precipitant moon

4.12.12
A collaborative renga written with tsac

hasty poet scribbling
unwilling to wait
while the world sinks in.
and the poem arrives.

contrapuntal raindrops
tapping tin roof
fugue state


ignorance is bliss
there is ignorance around here
24/7


a woman's red heart
lives by what's seen within
and felt without

one hundred percent polyester shirt woven by plastic silkworms.

ancient heart-pine floors pop and creak releasing daytime footsteps

brief cool green hour interrupted by sunrise_ pierced with waves of shimmering heat

hollow whirr of swift wings returning to clamorous nestlings' chitter

don't worry spiders
i keep house
with you in mind


jenny wren nest
in my clothes basket
laundry will wait


verdant field
red horse standing
under white blossoms

two wolf spiders
face off on the bathmat
epic battle or sweet seduction


long dark cloud lines
brushstrokes at dawn
nature's i-ching


i'm not crazy - i'm crazed
this old *** has acquired
lovely patina

i brush the dust
from darkened leather seat
there, spun-out on my fingers
find a pale spider's thread
a silver strand newly shed
from someone's wintry head

so long and fine and womanly
tangled there_ i wonder
whose grey hair, old friends?
yours or mine or yours?
which silvered sister left behind
this single strand
of our common winter-web

fickle Spring drenched in exotic perfumes departs for warmer climes

at the end of the chilly day,
the edge of the woods is alight-
tall trees and low flickering fire-line
against the pale western sky.
the fierce blaze, wind-driven holocaust
burned hot and hard across the land.
the dancing fire-devils are gone.

a flashing firetruck waits
in the smoky air, the faint crackling radio
echoes the dying pops of the embers-
the quick snapping flare
of a pitchpine stump bright
against the long shadows.

God and man have fired
these woods for all time.
the neighbors congregate to watch
and talk, or lend a hand.
we walk the mile-long line
with our shovels and rakes,
soot-covered and coughing
to ensure the fire is dead.

crazy old sanders shouts
to us from the road:
"ticks and snakes! a fire's good!
it kills the ticks and snakes!"
he rides away on his bicycle-
a voice crying out in the night.
i believe him yet i bend to
blackened boots to check
my weary ankles for
signs of life.

thalassia, my love, how can you forsake me
for the arms of neptune?
your absent eyes speak
my pleas are in vain.

she turns back to the wild ocean
sad seagreen eyes seeking the horizon
a gull cries

as eel to ancestral river
she slips beneath the surface
in deep rippling azure light
her element revealed.

as you are one, you will return to one
i cannot follow..
brief ecstatic hours, loved by a nixie
and i am ruined

my futile tears are seafoam
left on the beach after a storm.
my useless nets left behind
i will cast them no more

loose-knit heartstrings' slow unraveling.

tiniest blossoms of red-bud understory woven through bare trees

babbling syllables_ some strange ur-language before civilization sets in

sloe-eyed night-children wander aimlessly, searching for something else

burning sticks
a simple cycle,
back and forth i go
with the pitchfork
re-building the center

watching fire is timeless
the hours stretched as dali's clock
only the bright blaze
requires attention -
my comtemplation

in the shimmer
of heat's rising
i see a ghost
a figment of imagination
vanishing quickly
optical illusion of you

in my dream, my father put his hand on my childhood cheek

artlessly
i cast my thoughts into space
deliberate obfuscation
small metaphors and speculations

i do not keep
written records of my follies
they arrive at the speed of light.
belonging only to themselves.
flickering blazing dying
ashes to ashes
settling dust.

for all our past, the future's come undone.
no longer can love's hope reverse our fate
no empathy, no longing in the heart,
no turning back, the clocks no longer keep
the time we lost while wandering hand in hand.
we set our course, but manifest the split -
no looking back ... there is no truth in it.