storm clouds frighten the horses
because they're  bigger than houses,
and the wild beasts know
men are only visitors here,
like animals and wild oats
that grow from sand dunes.

even the spit of land rooted in
is temporary,
awaiting the next storm
that blows through -
grains will come loose,
attracted to one another
by weakest of forces;
permanence just an illusion
created by maps that men
pretend to read.

angry water can boil earth
in swirling pools of froth.
men aim to tame them -
the horses and the water -
fenced in by thin pickets
and wishes thinner yet -
the waves never notice;
scared beasts know this,
but men never learn.

Truth was always found
in tongues of loose razors;
sarcasm's edge pared
flesh sentimental,
weakness fallen
in strips to the ground,
where salt sown in handsful
ensured earth never fertile
that any blossoms might grow

So long food for the soul,
sharpness scooped up,
that bare hands
drunk in deep draughts,
and welcomed the cup
from which they poured forth;
occasional trips into hell,
for audience with the devil
to discuss global weather,
other pressing matters...


So to find anything of beauty,
like treasure revealed in moon beams
striking at just the right angle -
intricate, delicate, diaphanous
scarf trembling in melodies
only I hear, heartsongs
escaped lips of a siren
in distance where
stars grow...

Reading wonder in silk strands
woven as if by angel's hands;
imagined some magic
spun for me
a web that had existed
eternally, though never seen
'till revealed accidentally
in reflections of some
ancient lights

Today I'm made of starfire
sharpest blades can't uncover;
in morning, pondering patterns
clouds make in blue skies
like child's discoveries;
listening to sonatas in sunsets
as sweet tastes of poetry
relieve lingering stings
of doubt in my mouth

Bill played piano down by the bar,
moldy old show tunes
gray-haired folks listened to,
in youth they'd played over...and over.
He once told me he was terminal,
diagnosed with months left,
and had just one request
of his own to be met
before accepting eternal rest -
peace in the kiss
of a handsome young man
who's powder blue eyes
might make him feel young again.
I thought he would weep,
and heart aching, obliged,
gratified by the smile,
sweet joy it seemed to bring him...
'till Sarah stuffed a dollar
in the tumbler of tips
he kept perched on the edge
of the piano he played -
he'd won their wager
he could get the
straight kid to kiss him.
Sarah cooked in the kitchen
and I always wondered
what sort of mother
named her son -
Sarah Vaughn -
then heard the sparrow sing
on the radio, laughing
because the one I knew
squawked like a crow
and dressed
in wigs and woman's clothes
when work was finally done.
The coincidence seemed
a delicious, karmic prank,
payment for some past-life indiscretion.
Michael studied flamboyance,
raised to high art in sweeps of his hand,
head tossed back, as if to keep pace
with legs was annoyance.
Adolescent innocence ended
when I realized the only other
guy employed there
who was straight like me -
was really a she -
chest wrapped real tight.

I fear too much of life
Has been spent living in our
Mismatched silverware drawer.
While knives are always fine,
Never noticing much
What they might cut
Because they haven't sharp eyes;
So accustomed to close quarters,
They just lay there, as
Blind soldiers in wait of orders.
But I'm wary when they
Come out to speak,
Seeking blood, too often it seems.
Nicer when it's just
Butter must be spread
To warm toast instead.
Forks carry their own dangers.
In time, tines disentangled
From secret stainless dustups
That go on in the tray
While attention's drawn away
Can be wielded like daggers,
Impaling olives - or fingers -
That happen to fall in the way.
So painful, though rarely fatal
For those with shots up to date.
It's the others need worrying over;
Sad spoons that never nestle
As they did when they were new.
Uncomfortable now with one another,
Like wishes kissing cold lips,
Smooth hips never swaying to music
As they must have done once before,
Arranged in deranged patterns
In plastic compartments.
I'd rather take them all out,
Line them along the kitchen floor
For lessons in ballet or the samba.
I might learn to dance, again, too.
Sometimes, I wish we could eat with
The still-perfect gold set
We save for those who don't live here;
Drink fine wine every day from those
Dusty gilded glasses
Stocked in the corner cabinet.
It might feel more real then,
If they eventually get here...
We'd be prince and princess
Everyday, then, wouldn't we?

Body and mind in turmoil
Painted manic swirls of color,
From dust raised
In wind from soil
We sit at eternity's gate.
Within our simple frames
Rests God's nobility
Invested with His breaths
'Till called to home at last.

twilight  piles its scorn on sun
dim where we usually live
not in light nor dark
just that in - between part
that's gray, which is real life,
now's life,
death's life,
not bright
nor black and white,
good nor evil
just civil;
but how drab it feels
not to drink warmth anymore,
those glows,
afterglows,
after wet kisses
after summer rain
caught us laughing
quivering skin
still remembering
blood lingering
thumping heart beats
her heart beats
my heart beat
beautiful, musical beats
two beings synchronized
recalling breathless copulations
replayed ever in imagination
as new days unfolded,
unencumbered by fears
our floors were never sterile enough
and must always be washed
just once more
because it's too hard to see
dirt in twilight
and real life,
real love,
reality
is always messy

Ditch diggers don't write poems -
As if there might be found
A single thought  profound
Amid the mud they go in;
The pungence in essence released
From trees' roots that are severed
Is never fragrant like lilacs,
And their labor is of purpose,
That dirt removed by aching backs -
Gashed earth becomes the grave
In which our sins can be hidden;
Tomorrow ditches will be filled in,
Restoring peace which land craves,
The simple laborer's work done.

Ditch diggers don't write poetry -
Palms calloused in pick and *****,
Too rough when art 's to be made,
Remain convinced by sophistry
They've no true claim to a pen.
Clods of clay always remain
Adhered to heels of workmen's boots,
Becoming my life's defining metaphor.
So we forgo more ethereal pursuits,
Though forever treasuring sweetness
Flowed over soil of our dank holes,
Loving breaths exhaled from souls,
Floral kisses blown across distance.