On the eastern ***** of the glen, where the bees slept
and the breeze kept vigil-
you could see the Summer trumpet and submit to Beauty
With too many acorns for the Atavist.
But all the fiddle-backs to tickle
your midnight fancy.
Spruce garnets like Lanterns
of Warm Forever.
Unfit for flowers, but always a Season on Stilts
The cars are parking where the goslings go.
Now the aluminum can is shiny
in the ice on the asphalt
like a Valkyrie.
Little tombstones and caviar
ugly in the barrel.
where the chamber
has a bullet to kiss you with
or a Truth to Put a God
in your Hand.
Boarded windows bleached by shame and sunlight
clip the view of the smoldering memories of gazing from behind
an ancestral eye, Clutching your Choo-Choo train
as the snow alters the world with a white parade of carpet
stitched in Winters’ bitter Doily. A fabulous crush of delicate ephemera.
The street lamp praying for another life
backlit by the flames of your visitation… stoking your Southern Star.
The House recants the miracles and the broken step that ascends
while mocking your flight.
The crabapples chuck their boredom to the barren nostalgia
where the soil hid a lush lawn for lawn darts
Returning has to taste like a penny
To Change You.
Her eyes were like the last cactus in Alaska.
Shrines of blue honey, Always wide and diaphanous.
Glowing in the wind like round kites in Springtime,
So glorious are all the flaws of Her Symmetry
She sways the Tide on a Moon.
So my Love is in Orbit
Like a Loon.
Poems wither on the Mind. Try not to fret.
So many glockenspiels, alive in our hybrid Brigadoon.
Like merchants and sand *****
spelling your name with a zero
shaped like the Letter “ Because”.
you have no Idea.
But that’s like a Frequency.
You barge into long Ignorance
As all the while, the Stars are moving.
And Mystery remains a blush
of Wildfire in a Tamed Bugle
lodged in a Glacier
I do not carry a Bible but I cup my hands
in a River like an armless penitent-
to best the misfortunes
that conspire against my moral Spine.
I wear glasses now, And type, type, type.
And There’s a Monk in my Soup,
Sinking into the broth of my Engine.
Coiled in the simmering
of my liquid perspective
bejeweled in waves.
The gift of wine. My glass cups a ruby pool. And there are moths in the shed
dancing unforbidden in shoals of suspenseful dust. As I court the approaching nowhere
with a Spirit in my Grasp. I debunk the ruin of my days with my casual glooming.
Soaking in the bloated beauty of our constant world
as we blunder on the surface
of our childhood dreams…
A bronze rope
spooling from the sun
has found my
Upon felling an Oak.
G’Day, Mr. Sunny Bones. May I prop up your tea
with a sprig of mint and julep your corona with a sugar cube -
bathed in impossible sweet ravens, jostling for clouds?
Might I offer you the pillage of my mind as we stalk the Other
like rainbows stalk pots of gold? Would you like to imbibe
a silhouette? I have Just the Shadow.
You see; Mr. Gone has come to town, and a red dress is darling
on a pillar of smoke.
I love your watch the way a pillar loves alone.