I date myself.
A rotated heel
in spring soil
grooves an
agate pocket.
Marbles, glassies, boulders
and an instructional introduction
that life is a matter
of skill, bluster and chance.

The hidden is more than the seen
The seen is more than the observed
The observed is more than the understood
Is it not for poetry to truss 'n bridge
The wattle until better beavers
Make a channeled floody duddy of it?

the moist moments
we've spent together,
are a chaste rivlet

Wanted,
Blue haired ladies,
My wife tells that not PC anymore,
Needing an event speaker,
A poet.
I have a groaning chap book
Of metered observations.
Not much in my work to cause a blush.
But I do aim to burp a thought or two.

Stop with the daydreams
Of wet ******* unicorns.
Stop with the dam spillway
Of "undeserved tears."
Stop looking in the rear view mirror
And start looking at your **** rear.
Stop the inverted visions,
Need help?
Walk the streets of Calcutta,
Better yet,
Pitch a tent with the homeless.
Stop the mindlog.
Stop the driveling outlog,  
Just stop.

Marvelously Mentored

In mind
I guide my wheelchair
forward through the valley of death
and fear rises as if lachrymal dew
But I take heart knowing
there is a private way,
a fusion of mind=body,
my tao

Out of this valley
the way is paved
with slippery tempting templates,
Sirens songs,
a lyrical playlist cunningly self collected,  
but I remain mindfully resolute
caped in electric blanket and birthday suit
my 3D hero is me, Marvelously mentored,
sans copyright.

Morning, white horse fencing,
Black cat, jaguar walks top edge
Through the early hour mist.

There are three B's
intimately connected to a spinal cord injury,
bowel, bladder, and blather.
The gut severed from the brain
is rudderless.
Both bowel and bladder require outside assistance
which brings in blather.
The care giver, the talker.
One time, in my case
a born again ****** searcher.
Not for ****
but for digital conversion.
My *** well in hand I heard the purr,
"Do you believe in Jesus?"

Insouciance**

If I could get into your insouciance,
I'd be aplomb,
Without a care,
Unconcerned.
I'd be a veritable dancer
Of nonchalance,
Cool,
Collected,
Harmoniously tempered,
A picture of self control.
Perhaps calm contentment
Would measure my equanimity,
If I could keep my equilibrium
After getting into your insouciance.
I propose to repose like a rose.

If your face were a barn
You'd have swallows
Coming 'n going out a ya nose.

And your hands:
If they were a bridge
You'd have pigeons
****-walking 'n cooing
In the web's of your skin.

And your hair!
It's already a nest,
Fringe all around
With a crocodile egg topp'n ya up there.

*Exaggerated physical illustration encouraged

Do parallel lines ever meet,
Or parallel worlds ever collide?
Can two lovers at a distance
Simultaneously feel the same thought?
What's it like to be a triathlon gamete
And be the first to cross that finish line?

Imagine starting over again,
Imagine a clean slate!
Imagine the possibilities,
Imagine the dread.
Imagine all your sins forgiven,
Imagine having *** tonight,
Yet tomorrow still  a ******.
If you can imagine this
Then you have too much imagination.

Leading sounds of spring
Are now preceding the season.
Scattered platoons of yardmen
clunk aluminum ladders
that thunk debris littered roof gutters,
bang a size range of galvanized nails
into an exterior catalogue of materials
needing attentive appending.
The leaf blowers, the leaf blowers
exhausting NASCAR level roars
attempting to push back
last fall/winter into their calendared slots.
And the first nice day Harleys
rumble distantly along the gorge road below.

*******, *******, Where art thou *******?

guilt is a homing pigeon,
with a miraculous sense of direction.

Thank you for
the wish-you-were-here photo
that you emailed today,
so soft, beautiful, and peaceful,
your fairyland winter,
a reminder to entreat you
"please, please keep it there!"

At night
when you comb your hair
you direct and cast
a lively Balinese shadow theatre
across the walls and ceiling
of our slumber room.

in your high chair
you must have been precocious
with your alphabet soup
up there in that lofty charthouse
piloting gluten letters
through a steaming sea of blood red tomato,
making floating islands of toki pona,
"mi olin e sina"

I'm a bit of an agnostic,
sounds a little weasely I know,
But god in addressing you
should i be using a cap G
or lower case g?
As a compromise for this conversation
let's agree
you get a small g and i get small i.
If you've been monitoring events down here
you know we have some not small problems,
and one of those problems you could easily solve by making an appearance.
Nothing apocryphal,
maybe a United Nation speech
to seven billion hearts 'n minds,
and as proof its really you,
you could cause peace to reign,
cure hunger,
call off heart disease and cancer,
for a statistically significantly period,
let's say three years.
What's in it for you?
How about that capital "G"?

It's in the bag
or is it?
The unmeasured liquids
that I've been drinking this morning,,
coffee, prune juice, cranberry, pill water
then the mandatory diuretic
taken at 6:00 a.m.,
a cath a ten,
lunch at twelve thirty,
and then a lap moat of **** at one!
A transfer board out of the wheelchair
onto the made bed.
Rocking 'n rolling off the wet pants,
rocking and rolling on a pair of dry slacks.
"****, ****, I hate this."

wheels splay mud ruts,
lazy "S" tracks tender turf,
eyes trail to horse barn.

It's an elevator ride.
You decide whether
it's down or up.
The car slows and halts
to fill or empty.
You ride,
you ride,
you ride
knowing that only
the suicidal select a stop.

logs 'n lime mortar,
the cabin hearth - dry stack stone,
screen porch - mountain view.

Nothing closer than white on rice
unless, of course it writhes
then you're probably forking lice!

My black cat
of twelve years
pretends not to know me
following my five months of hospitalized absence.
Perhaps it is the newly acquired wheelchair,
or the motorized invalid bed?
Why should he be any different than some old friends
whose calls are now noticeably less frequent
than prior to my paralyzing accident?
Or perhaps it is I,
too cinched up in my need bag
to reach out for a pet pat
or a pal chat?

close your eyes,
settle your mind,
still your heart,
we will be one in silence.

Gib moon, horse barn roof,
The trees and hills silhouette,
"Cry, coyote, yowl."

The interval,
sliced, metered, warped,
occilating space time,
the field where we strut
our stuff
for an impermanent
registrar.

When eagles fly lambs bleat,
Taloned shadows circle.
Plunge streak,
Grounding impermanence;
Life, death,
Impersonal but personal.

Have you noticed the old pagan gods
are in fashion this year?
It's like that hemline thing,
a rising economy
raises all skirts.

Let us hold hands,
experience the connection
between the food
we are about to eat
and all those
that made this meal possible.
The farmer and his work hands,
the lawyers and bankers
that drew up the contracts
and financed the crops,
the truckers, the truck makers,
the road builders, bridge builders,
the buyers, distributors,
the cullers, wrappers,
and food handlers including
a vast myriad of ancillary
support troops engaged
in nearly every occupation imaginable.
We, who are about to eat,
give mindful thanks.

The simple pleasure of purchasing shoes
that fit like a crown made for your toes,
reminds me of the Philippine First Lady,
Emelda Marcos and her closet of clogs
Some folks are unhappy with their cornucopia filled
and other are content if they get one gild.

Though
Their bodies are benched on Church Street,
Their minds are capable
Of startling flight,
Time travel,
Trans Universe travel,
Invisible train travel
They take the blue line -
"All aboard for Valhalla, Inferno, Acadia, Hades,
Bliss, Abandon, Elysium, Pandemonia ..."
They sway clutching the overhead strap,
Eyes glazed, rheumy, vacant, or fiendishly happy,
Transfixed by the scenic whir that no one can see
But them.

Your night is the day's embryo,
You wake,
You're  a parent to a new day.
You have responsibilities!
No time to do a zombie walk 'til noon.
Time for two, three, lines of finity;
It will jack y0u high on impermanence.
Certainty has never insured tomorrow.
This day is your last banquet?
Fill your plate, but not full.
Do not dine alone.
Say grace, for you are the Pope of the hour,
Your awareness is a sacrament
That blesses everything you see and touch.
Soon your day will die in a ****** cloud
Leaving you with both less and a little more.

Today, a convention
within these mountains,
a cloud 'n vapor parade
displaying every pantheon
that history
and the Jungian collective
ever imagined,
morphing before my eyes,
now the Cherokee chief,
that once owned these peaks,
reigning over the D-land mouse.

Wanted, bad poems.
We are an international publisher
specializing in bad poetry.
Not bad poetry,
but really, really bad poetry.
Your submission should include one or more of the following words:
Heart,Shard,Wind,Love,Hate,Death, I (lots of I's).

I tried and tried
to write a poem today
but
all my efforts
came to naughts,
so all I have to show for that
is simply
this

.

We like our anger pickled
dessicated, fried.
We've had it boiled, baked,
rewarmed, microwaved on high.
We most enjoy it on holidays
served across the table
by siblings that we despise.

Arctic air ,
a Canadian export,
not ledgered in any book of trade,
replaced hunger as the body's sole attention.
There will be time for additional Canadian exports:
wheat, canola, eggs, bacon, beans, potatoes...
But the temperature plunge
routed the homeless last night
from their million dollar bridge encampments,
scattering their shanty collective,
into a forced survival march to heated shelters.
"Praise the Lord. Praise the Lord.  
Come in my children.
God loves you."

I've never met Andy Rooney.  So I can't truthfully say I know Mr. Rooney.  But you can't help forming an opinion after watching him on 60 Minutes for more years than I care to admit.

First, Andy's opinionated.  Well, who wouldn't be if they were paid, presumably well,  given an entire week to collect and share their thoughts with millions of viewers, and on any matter that rankled you that week!

Second, Andy has Svengali eye brows that you just can't take your eyes off.  I'm sure CBS provides Andy free barbering, as sure as I am that he tells the barber, "Nothing off the brows."

Third, how many times has Andy told his audience not to send him things.  After which he dips into a cardboard box and pulls out a cheese grater, a bible printed on playing cards, or a logo baseball cap?
Andy, don't worry; I got the message.

Is my minute up yet?  

Fourth, Andy's hand shakes.  Not unusual for a man his age.  It's not likely to happen, but I wouldn't mind shaking that hand just once.

Your words,
your thoughts,
your form,
warp and woof
a numinous weave,
a diaphanous dress
that once
only gods could wear.

Dare I say it,
The oasis,
More like a billabong,
Is love.
And every thirsty beast wants a drink.
The water hole is muddy and dangerous,
Nonetheless,
With mixed success,
Each will take their chances.
Some are killed outright
By a crouching tiger or hidden gator.
Others get a couple of quick sips
But are run off by fear.
And a lucky few
Drink deeply,
Sustaining them for years.

Little stars
Burning bright
How much helium
Did you make tonight?
From hydrogen to helium
A cubic centimeter
Will power an average city for a year.

This may not be a poem,
more like a beef,
an irritation,
a shock and awe annoyance,
that too, too, too many poems
by keyed up scribblers,
package their custard mustard innards
with the same skill three year olds
wrap a present for their mothers,
fully expecting the same mom response,
"Honey, this is so lovely."
There is no disgrace
in learning by failing.
Fail, fail, fail,
But do it honestly.
Read five books of poems
before you write
one miserable haiku.

I'm struggling here,
this is the Muse's night off,
and I so wanted to gift wrap
a few heart stop words
while writing you.

This night
toe to toe
knee to knee
follicles embracing follicles
belly to belly
******* to *******
palms to palms
lips to lips
we watch with envy
our avatars.

My building pans for gold
In these hard times,
And for its efforts
Has desilted some glinty nuggets,
Employed twenty-somethings!
Roll in your grave Che Guevara,
Here no one is packing bullets to the hills.
This band of twenty-somethings
Multi task marble halls thumbs all a twitter,
"tgif...come over, wine, pizza, stay the night?"

Mary and Joseph if you're still looking for your son,
He's sleeping in the park
Along with his disciples.
Their last supper was a dumpster dive
Of congealed chinese, smelling of fish sauce.

The painting at the head of my bed
on a single frame canvas
depicts a triptych,
a faux three pane view
of the Blue Ridge Mountains.
This tri panel composition
reminds me of the way some Christians,
fuse their three bodied god into a mythical
singularity of mystical much.

It doesn't seem right
to own a private lake
but I've been guested
on grand estates
to more modest twenty acre piddles.
The common thread
the owners
all worry the taxes.

Us,
not
us in any common sense,
our skin pod hulls,
nursed by different rains,
pulled from divergent fields,
shucked under different moons,
no, not us
in any common sense,
but us
in a deeper vain,
not as in fruited seed,
chaste to the disappointments
of common ground,
chaste to the harness
of sun baked sweat,
no,
us as in
a deeper sense,
an us
that is rarely found,
but in poesy
we both profound.