I

Salient soliloquies startle unemployed brokers breaking windsurf and almond joys against a heavenly myrtle, or
Shallow ponds of serendipity swallowing enormously at bandits who bait their breath as minutes retreat, or
this poetry is about reminders, or
Children hiding under ghosts evoking dead pools of drinking moss,
who dream of knowing silence

Who,
spreading dyes of crushed grass give scarecrows a purpose to perch,
In a land called Home,
In an outlet called intelligible,
during a shared history, which,
Under dissection,
startles earthworms from their native volumes now standing naked in the daylight,
The daylight, which is contained,
a specular cocoon or an inverted dome: the sky.

II

a pinwheel,
when spinning, is unsuspected of employing Nature’s most dangerous tools,
One of flatness, one of exuberance, jubilation,
of the dirt that falls upon ones clothes as one passes through the pines and pins of solitude,
solitude, which,
in a wave from the unknown, dispose of forgone longings through the greeting of a friend who remains a stranger until they’re gone.

build my gallows
build my gallows high

blood moon, fire red
no gentle breeze
not a flower in your bed

the echo of rocks
from your fingertips
a roll of the dice
in your eyes

no flowers or the sun
a roll of the dice
and i'm gonna run

build my gallows high
with long fallen trees
in ragged, wind blown skies

build my gallows high

Well first i went up santa ana street,
hung a left, at little ida road,
and by and by the rain it came and washed out all the dirt,
and into those little running streams.

The concrete of the bridges they sung with hanging moss,
right over the heads of the horses,
and bit by bit the rain it fell and receded into earth,
oh heavens it was one downright cloudy day.

oh mystery it sung a song one precious and unborn,
of a mind much too loosened on the earth,
how a soul might plod no-one can know, how you feel much the same
day after many membered day.

many mottled heads they hang in reproachment and in mirth,
the jury of an open field of grass,
and all who come who dare to listen can only find a friend,
in the falling of the long remembered rain.

oh mystery it sung a song one precious and unborn,
of a mind much too loosened on the earth,
how a soul might plod no-one can know, how you feel much the same
day after many membered day.

staring out the window,
I remember you as you were

a bird always in flight

a fist full of tomorrows
held in the palm of your hand

staring out the window at the pouring rain
the warmth of your hand
pinions of a dove's wing
your hand in mine

I will not see the shadow
under your smile


gathering all the light in the room
like a flower in the sun

I remember you as you were

A handful of the rosary:

One for the bell,

One for the crow that flew the town,
upon the spire’s clattering ring.

One for the herb
meant to freshen the room,

One for the beating moth,

One for the well-worn apparatus
that keys keep hidden for the host.