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

forgive everyone
the greatest teachers often
inflict the most pain

small cricket
sings in clothes dryer
laundry can wait

four leaf clover
pressed in dictionary
dried up good luck

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

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

babbling syllables_ some strange ur-language before civilization sets in

gentle fog dissolves at sunrise leaving trees hung with brief diamonds

Soul settled deep in this nest of solitude, incubating Self

passionate paeaons of courtship fast-diminishing to domesticated bliss

jenny wren splashing in her tiny tiffany crystal tub

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

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

hollow whirr of swift wings returning to clamorous nestlings' chitter

the sharp smell of fresh-logged pines bleeding pungent sap.

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

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

in piney woods rotted slave shack stands defined by daffodils

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...

elusive illusion
desires and fantasies
illusive elusion

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

tiniest blossoms of red-bud understory woven through bare trees

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.

loose-knit heartstrings' slow unraveling.

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

one hundred percent polyester shirt woven by plastic silkworms.

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.

infused with moonlight, casting sharp shadow_ i hear first whippoorwill

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

pointless re-pinings exacerbate my sorrow for paradise lost

tiny gaping mouths in crowded nest_ red azalea flowers

this ruby heart cross-hatched with lifetime scars of love-songs lost

is the illusion of love
preferable to love no longer?
even a shriveled heart
dry as a prune
grows plump with tears
for what is not there.

our bodies not touching beneath sticky sheets_woven tongues

sluggish stroll to red-hot mailbox_sunstroke summer

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

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

ink-dark brushstrokes_ cross-hatched cloud-lines across lavender sky

objects in the mirror are closer than they appear

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

in velvet sky, the endless band of distant stars arcing into forever.

all the windchimes sounding incongruent harmonies in the warming breeze.

ancient heart-pine floors pop and creak releasing daytime footsteps

ink-blue fog bleeds into rippling waters_no horizon

fickle Spring drenched in exotic perfumes departs for warmer climes

a book, a man and a flask may be
such lovely comfort_ certainly
the woven tongues and salted sweat
eternal love declared, and yet
the bottle's dry, the man is spent
the plot is dull, so from his tent
she flies away_as quick as she can
and finds herself another man.

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


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

white blossom's faded petals tossed aside_a stained petticoat.

in green glass bottle poets' narcissus' intoxicating aroma

perhaps, madness lies in belief
the illusion that
all is well.
that everyone else gets by
coping with daily life
their dreams unscathed
their clarity intact
their mirrors, untarnished
un-muddied pools.

hold tight to aimless golden hours of childhood_ stay in saturday.

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