Bull frog in fish pond—
Loud, one day I heard last croak,
Raccoon washing hands.

.
Before the wings and spring of words,

Were cradle-held in a cloud of sleep,

Soft footfalls to hear ourselves turning

And ever new dreams were lofty keys,


We could not see the frost branching

And winter never was, nor winds cold,

In our temple eyes, the sun crowning

Imbued visions, fine as woven gold,


Draped in silks so rare, spun spinning,

To hear the birds sing in ears blossom,

For the very first time, true beginnings

And the flower's colour never forgotten,


All is mourning now— song, sings singer,

To morn, to wake, dream, dreams dreamer.
.

She left him at night,
Eyes moving away and hearts,
Falling like Perseids.

.
O the trender souls who keep
Spewing their ladled ornaments,
Words even a dull, starving bird
Would not gobble, plastic pieces,
Rambles of thought, unthought,
Pretty sounding, shiny trinkets,
Merely nailed by some old book,
Or a dog eared dictionary, maybe,
Some pulpy article wherein hacks,
Dreamt with loss, sad aspirations,
These are the dug trailings of fools,
Lazy, writers who fancy themselves,
Fancying themselves, in a black mirror,
Merciful as imagination and delusion,
O how the neophyte sings without any
Voice, nor depth, nor taste, nor blood,
Conscious revels in unconsciousness,
O but lame awaits the vain, the shallow,
The self proclaimed, the peacock, but, their
Showtime is only something base, something
Not and ghost peculiar, something only a carny
Would know to mock, revile as he promotes.
How glittering are the newest word baubles,
Blathering speak to mask all faceless souls,
Twaddle, twitterings, revered by simpletons.

Imagine Eden, real,
No heartless ****-heads breathing,
World without right wings.

The lone stark bugle cry—
Horn of the great mountain elk,
Ripples down cold through morning
Dusted wood as the mushrooming dews        
Drop into dearly waded pools under
Fawning toes of forage and cool
Evergreen.

Crystal sparkles—
From within, with ores,
Mineral, quartz, precious
Commonalities from earths
Core.  Wind has attempted
To make shy marks— falling
Sorrowfully short and water
Has edged and smoothed
By centuries too of trying.
This then was their show,
A kind of immortal love,
Everlasting by its trials,
As even the sun knows,
For a ley line, etched so fey,
Runs each wild orbs circumference,
Separates moss from clean stone,
Tracing the path of a star.

Pints in French café,
Glowing hops, bubbling stars,
Wood stool a trindle.

Birds painting the air,
Early light in the garden,
Waking with new sun.

Red is my ale,
Like the red of her hair,
Crowds in the pub, shuffle
And dart and all around is merriment,
Looking into my bottomless pint,
Facing the bars closing—
My muted voice mumbles,
Sighs, welled with sinking eyes,
Silent as my prayer.

I saw a hunter by a country road,
In tandem with me he sailed as I drove.

His hoody-head set monkish to the soil
Conjured up music so soundful, sacred,
And I unmoving over a tired flesh—
Coloured vehicle felt naked and dead

For he so saintly robed and dressed to ****
In the colours of the sky prayed with wings,
My harrier, his eyes cleansed purity and gold
While mine unsightly piebald pale and blue.

But want of food dovetailed two craving
Creatures, yet, over fed I felt rusty
Below his steely hunger and what saving
Grace God might offer either mice or men.

I saw a hunter by a country road,
In tandem with me he sailed as I drove.

His hoody-head set monkish to the soil
Conjured up music so soundful, sacred,
And I unmoving over a tired flesh—
Coloured vehicle felt naked and dead

For he so saintly robed and dressed to ****
In the colours of the sky prayed with wings,
My harrier, his eyes cleansed purity and gold
While mine unsightly piebald pale and blue.

But want of food dovetailed two craving
Creatures, yet— over fed I felt rusty
Below his steely hunger and what saving
Grace God might offer either mice or men.

One last winter walk—
Little clouds falling all round,
Snowfields between us.

I have seen couples,
So far from each—
Other, on a platform,
Waiting for the next train,
Never touching, yet how
They ****** their mobile
Devices, how softly, sweet,
Without guile nor agenda
They swipe the glass—
As it swoons back in return
With blue lights and alerts,
So dearly needed and answers,
In way words for the machines
Of flesh and the ghost within,
With such personal aplomb
In real notifications of text
And instant message.

She sparkled with eyes,
Red flames of vaporous hair,
Fireworks of touch.

The moon, beams over the planted fields,
Growing blades shimmer, slicing the night
As fiery comets first seeded the earth,
Beads light, to life-giving grains of rice.

Feathered arrows flung—
Geese search for fertile grasslands,
  .  .  .  Deltas in the sky.

With only guitar  .  .  .
Deep curves hold me in music,
  .  .  .  Song of her body.

Get me off dance floor—
One step forward, two steps back,
  .  .  .  Walking wounded waltz.

.
Sometimes the body is contagion
To the soul.  Stars in their mission fall
To seed the fertile flesh, ignite
Blue waters of sulfureous hearts,
And so the flash is set to cancel
In the flood.  

Sometimes the lip of soul onto seal
Will not hold, before he first knocked
And let flesh enter, thorny pegs
Pricked nerve and pierced bone on his climb
To the rose, yea, some stars odd as
Meteors crash.

In the swan-sea, song-sangy-frame of crib,
Rough hewn words bent mold to scrape, like
Blasted coral, stood half-submerged
Amid sea and sky, for between the leaves,
Behind the eye, there are little stars
Shining like existence.

In a circle world he fashioned green
Blazons about the darkling day,
Fostered by celestial navigation,
Wrote a language for music, on a map of love
And charted the force of green in a wind-
Rose of discovery.

Sometimes the soul is not contained, it
Bursts in silent sound like well water
From the source.  And of men in streets
He saw the pennies in their grumble
Eyes, and of love and its course he rubbed,
Tickling dim stars.

It was his thirty ninth year in that fall
To heaven when the steeping cell,
Refused to push in its tide.  Homeless
And free on scaffold of bone the middling
Man retracted from sun to sink
With the moon, turn-tiding-toward sea
Like a changeling.

And as ever, nor often, unwavering eyes
Sprout through shifting grains.  And as he spoke
Quite rimless, Dylan Thomas was petrified
In undying light, and solid set within a rill
Of reef sparkling in concert betwixt gas
And sea, so becoming in purple sleeves,
This constellation of mute singers all,
Dried five-fingered-fish, bright embryos
Returned to the shell, they burn between the leaves,
Beset the grounded skies and show sprite flashes
In the dark where He has left his imprints, burning
Above and plastered below.  The first rock stars!

Woman,
Why do you visit so seldom, and plant things
In my fallen over garden, lavender and thyme,
Only to leave, but not
To tend?

Woman,
Take my sorrow and turn down the moon,
Plaster the sun in golden dress and spill
The ground with buttons
Of flower.

Woman,
Why does your face haunt me in dreams,
Your voice, play as in the spirit well that sings,
Drops forth, the moving waters
Into being?

Woman,
Take my open hands and travel with me,
Beyond the ninth wave, to the lost island
Of Hy-Brasil, and we will long live,
Wondrous as poetry.

Many years alone,
Suddenly— old thoughts of her,
  .  .  .  Lone raven in sky.

Ancient tree reaching—
Love rests under gnarled branches,
  .  .  .  Mist over a moor.

.
*Our life flows lush tended gardens now,

Lake waters with sun conspire to shine,

Mountains breaking through the clouds,

Lone eagle erasing all that is lost of sky.

In a flower field—
Blue irises, tendril hairs,
Saw her disappear.

Otters slide down hill,
Gliding into snow melt creek,
Swimming in the sun.

I trembled zipping her,
Cascades of hair— rosewater,
Poured into a dress.

Tea and cup, ready,
Birds in garden weaving dream,
Kettle wakes, calling.

Two ways of seeing—
Shadows running after game,
Round face of the moon.

Two prideful lovers—
In cold lips empty chamber,
  .  .  .  Words wait to be said.

When senses run together, dull in the rack  
Of night, it’s Chaos who culls true meaning.
He mocks the light of day in paradox  
Sings: ‘we are such stuff as dreams are made on.’
The ****** end, embodies the souls watery  
Beginning, and so the beating star is all
Intermingled; until flesh and fibers are done,
Thus: ‘we are such stuff as dreams are made on.’
Though mighty Jove, who beat the antique world
Down, cast poor Agamemnon his fate, it’s
Helen of Troy whose aisling breaks like doom,  
All from the strain of Leda and the Swan.  
For, ‘we are such stuff as dreams are made on,
And our little life is rounded with a sleep.’

Is all concrete below ephemeral skies,
To think what is now as already made,
Riding lone, the plateaus of a minds eye,
Or is whole of nature purest esplanade?

In my darkest hour, by the rage of sun,
I met her in a shower of April days,
Riding to the moon in twined études,
The dry chrysalis of winter shells
Gave way to lightness, glaze,
The rain in our eyes, amaze,
Her voice as it fluted, broke,
Like feathers from a wandering bird,
Were my wings of iridescence and joy
And we were blind when we were born,
We were blind as bells of floating grace,
Lived forever by such a new shore,
Such ends of buzzing time,
As May flies.

Love, looked at itself,
Came upon nubile innocents,
Threw down with jaded sun,
Made its own bed in the open,
Earth rained for a thousand days,
Evolution birthing in the flood,
Meteors could not wait to fall,
Comets not wait to strike,
Oceans drowned in salt,
Evaporated whilst the whole wide
Swirl, turned and glazed upon
An arc of celestial remnants.

…
Some birds are blue
Carry the sky
Earthwards

Ground birds nest
In bushes
Bursting like sun

Water birds
Swim to what is there
Always reaching

An eagle is like wind
Never chasing
Simply lofted

Crows are busy
So like tribulations
Spots of wind

A swan knows
Water will carry
As water in cloud

Some birds are dressed
Forthright on earth
The wren, the robin or quail

Each bird is dream
Miracles for us to see
Feathers fall from heaven

.
Winged caterpillar
That frees my soul,
Sets my mind to dreaming,
How the hand of man
Out plays the God,
Makes love
To its master.
With fondled fingers, you paint
A dumb firmament, the way
Light dazzles as it breaks
Or how the itching rain
Taps a teasing melody as it falls
To the lover ground.

Beloved of Orpheus
Whose wove you coiled in-
Vents a garment of bird song loom,
Content my breath
The way that water wells
And lolls into puddles
Nesting not before the hot,
Harpy steam.

O melodious pool,
Undulating lake, frame
To emotive vapours, without
Ship you ply in wakes.
The oarsman plucks the main,
Your body is the sail,
Drunkard winds and warblers,
Blow hard, but fail my ears,
Atone as well, the wretched sounds of day
For they are sour spells, and but a fools
Trash canned movements, in a state
So needy of weeding,
Mere sound is soiled
The way you rake.

Evolution spreads,
As stones do,
When moves the river bed,
Grace, in violence,
Sparkles as it blooms,
Like an ears creation—
Rose on the tomb.

Long, gloved fingers,
Shocking white in dark forest,
Models of winter.

All the valleys, green, rumpled
And cresting in their April dress
And all the creatures who live under,
They wade and stroke and dive,
I live high above in my light house,
Watching the ocean waves.

When I was a youth, I spied a bird,
She filled my field with song,
And sadly it was, my duties began
But we made a vow singin,'
Together again!

    And a way'l we go, as I hurry the sea and—
    She waits the land.

My true love I call a nightingale,
And I myself a lark,
Together we make, two turtledoves,
And we made a vow singin,'
Together again!

    And a way'l we go, as I hurry the sea and—
    She waits the land.

    O come will the day, that my true will say,
    When all my sporting is over,
    'Do you remember the days, I waited the land,
    And you hurried the sea?'

Now, the sea is my girl and I her man,
I hear a lovers lament,
An old seabird cries from the brighty main,
And I join with him singin,'
Together again!

    *O come will the day, that my true will say,
    'My heart, you've been the world over!'
    But until I rest free, I must hurry the sea and
    She waits the land.

I will not die for you
Woman fey of flesh and home,
I linger but to see you unfrock
The holy, set rogues to roam.

Why should I thus be consumed
In breath like coldest fire?
Shape of rising waterfalls
That state, I surely do not desire

The downy *******, the runny skin,
Spark of cheek, notes of hair in shower,
The gliding step, the gusty tone,
Fools have died for much less a dower.

The lancing pools, the hemlock mien,
The highland sheen, the dawn-bird voice,
The Safire eye, over step of pyramid
Merlin gave Arthur a safer choice.

I will not drown for you,
Flood of hair, red as the lye
In parted Jordan, that sea, not me,
Shall pine as ever, slowly dying.

Your healing humors, your subtle sovereignty,
Your blood, noble as seven-seas are blue,
Little mirror who paints the sky,
Though nearly, I will not die for you.

We beach walked at night,
Invisible waves knocking,
  .  .  .  Driftwood under soles.

Frogs— suddenly dive,
Blocks of flesh crane to the sky,
Heron holds head high.

I do not envy the man about town,
The shackle suit and morning groom,
The campaign of papers and style,
Whose work a day is but a futile way
And each choice is ruin to the heart.

The pill shaped tables of the board rooms,
Where ink is blood and flesh is facsimile,
Caged in by the cubicle, lets in no breeze,
Only the still air of stifle, encased.
What dreams may die in this dullness  
Of days?
          There is a ringing that will not  
Cease.  There are stalls by the staples, there is  
No peace.  And time is warden either side  
Of the glass doors and with mercenary feet  
And closed eyes he makes his stand, he makes
His choice, he sets his gait, chimes in lock step,  
His voice is hoarse, and all his salary days  
Are trojan.  
  
        No, I do not relish the dog  
Eat dog, nor the barking toes that step so low,  
Even lower than the hangman's boom.  For like  
A slug crossing a busy street he does not fear  
The tread.  He does not know these sounds are clink.   
His thoughts are trapped in folders read, and with  
Mobile cells his ears are pinned and grating-micro-
Waves well cancer to his brain.

The lost elk on blue pine mountain,
Where all the stunted world is small,
Know the face of winter as it founts,
Above tree lines, trumpet all is cold.