Summer morning -
pink jets of clouds
splash out
from the golden well of the east
falling just short
of an ebbing moon.

Streams of swallows
flutter and glide
over the garden -
they are all flying
in the same direction
as if erupting

from the sun’s waking pulse.
Just for a moment
one of the birds hangs
perfectly still -
like the top-most drop of water
from a fountain before it turns

to face the glittering pool.
Beneath them all
the hummingbird
makes her rounds
and a dove scratches the earth
below the feeder

keeping an wary eye
on the scribbling intruder.
So many summer mornings -
too many summer mornings
I have wasted
worrying about the world

and my place in it –
absent from my own body
and breath
the cage of my ribs
rising, falling, and pausing
without me. Meanwhile,

another swallow
stills her wings.
Buoyed by an unseen breeze
she is both feathered sail
and cresting wave as she slices
over my shoulder bearing west.


Tom Spencer © 2015

up early to water
the garden

the cicadas are
already drilling holes

into the
leaden stillness

everywhere
leaves are drooping

I spray the shrubs
to wash off the dust

birds fly in to sit
on the dripping branches

begging for a shower
a cardinal flutters  

its wings and sings
and I oblige

jewel-like droplets splash
through the slanting light

everywhere
the world is ablaze

heat waves wild fires
everywhere anger

everywhere distraction
suspicion

leaders are faint-hearted
the wicked fan the flames

still my garden needs water
still the cardinal

flutters its wet wings
and sings

here here water here
here here water here

Tom Spencer © 2018

In the evenings
the deer would emerge
from the edge of the woods
stepping over the tumbledown stones
of walls left untended-
they'd leave tracks through the snow
in a wandering line that led to the last apple tree
in the field by Orchard Street.

I remember that now,
staring at this antler I've found
in the clearing between the cactus
and sun bleached stones.
The lines of the antler
flow into the fractures of my palm-
two thousand miles from snow,
and two thousand miles from
the blue evening glow
of a shivering world
glazed over by twilight…

And the deer-
magnificent, pawing the snow
searching for apples that had fallen below-
emboldened by the frozen sweetness of autumn.
They were graceful even in flight-
when cars with chains
jingling and crunching the ice
rounded the corner
down Orchard Street.

Today I've tracked over two thousand miles
in my own wandering line-
the lines of the antler
flow through the tangles and hollows of time.

Sometimes I stand in a clearing,
sometimes hidden by trees,
sometimes I scratch below the surface,
and I run- but, less gracefully...

There are walls I've left untended
and some I've crafted too well-
it is through forgotten tumbledown walls
that memories come-
I thank grace
it was into this clearing they fell.


Tom Spencer © 2017

Cellophane wings beating
against the heavy summer air,
back and forth, all day long,
the blue dragonflies
chase one another across the pond-
their tails turned up
like neon scimitars
poised for a ******
that never seems to come.
Occasionally, a truce is called,
and they settle into place
on opposite sides of the reeds,
momentarily oblivious to their war.
Twice their size,
the red dragonfly idles in the sun.
From time to time it leaves its perch
to challenge the silhouette
hanging from the iris blade,
its spent skin,
as if it were a bad memory
rising from the green depths of the pond.
Below the surface,
the fish school together- a current of gold
slipping between the lily pads,
each aware of its place in the stream.
My reflection circles them all.
Drawn to the water
that both mirrors and obscures
I lose my place for a moment-
hovering between obligations and idleness
on cellophane wings.


Tom Spencer © 2015

On a thin ribbon of light
unfurled from unseen heaven
direct to her parted robe
and disquieted ear

comes an angel’s voice,
the dove’s winged companion,
with words foretold in the book
now slipping to the floor.

What hunger fires
our flickering imaginations,
that require Grace come
wrapped in velvet purses-

with proof of the child’s
purity dripping from tables
and prophet encrusted walls?
I think they had it all wrong-

Fra Angelico, Veronese, van Ecyk,
and even Martini with his
gilded apprehension.
I prefer a scene without

unblemished lilies-
no fine linens, puffing cherubs,
or embroidered pillows on display.
I picture her instead

at her daily labor- pulling
on a ***** rope at the village well.
With calloused hands, she
draws her trembling reflection

skyward, when, announced
by the slightest breeze,
a stranger appears.
Before their eyes meet,

a bird’s flight distracts her-
water splashes from the bucket
washing the dust from her feet
and soaking the tattered hem

of her robe. His silent glance
holds her only for a moment.
In the distance, a voice
calls out, “Daughter!”

She turns, sets off,
bowing to her burden.
A cloud’s shadow
melts in the heat of the road.



Tom Spencer © 2018

a fish surfaces
in the creek

scattering
the moon's reflection

silver echoes
embrace the shore

and then
disappear

I fall silent
laughter settles

friends ask
what I saw


Tom Spencer © 2018

pulling back the covers
dimming the lights

an owl calls
from the holly tree

just outside
of my window

the garden below
has grown beyond my control

weeds sprout vines tangle
in the summer squirrels gnaw

on the green holly berries
littering the courtyard

with half-eaten haws
in the spring mockingbirds

gorge on the bright red fruit
their florid songs

celebrating
light sky life sun leaf air

closing my eyes
I think back through the decades

to when I planted the tree
it was a time of hope

a time when we dared dream
of a world without

mortal enemies
when you could imagine

shaded islands of calm
hidden coves immune to rancor

now look at us
heads down lost hurtling

stumbling
under a trance

we have turned on one other
distracted by those

who grab wealth and power
under the cover of night

confused by the constant
trumpeting and alarms

blind to what we share
we retreat

into the darkness
of our fears

Tom Spencer © 2018

Crumpled on a ***** door mat,
left by the cats -
the owl is just a loose bag
of feathers now - empty talons curled,
and one fierce eye turned
over its shoulder.

"What soft flesh enticed you to the ground?"

Lifting the mat, I remember
waking at night to the trilling call – a silvery vein
wrapped in the dark energy of hunger.

“All things die and too soon...” I say aloud,
my own eye sinking into that inky well. The
vacant perch leaning over my shoulder.

"What is to become of my flesh, my soul?"

"It's the waking that counts," I think, "and the meeting."
For a moment I wake again - grateful for the living.

Tom Spencer © 2017

I had not been born yet.
Still, I can see you at your labor -
alone, scouring the meadows
for the stones -
lifting their gray shoulders
from the moist earth -
pulling them from the
green grasp of briars,
goldenrod, and
Queen Anne’s Lace.

The smell of the earth
must have filled you with
your own childhood memories -
of plowing fields
and cold mornings
trudging across barn yards
mud thick on your boots -
promising yourself
that someday you would leave
and never return.

I can hear the pick axe -
the sharp strikes
against the stones,
and the dull thud
when the earth
swallowed the blade -
and the deep exhalations
when the stones tumbled into
the old wheelbarrow – new then -
that now leans rusting
against my garden shed.

Some of the stones were so large -
far too large for one man –
how did you move them?
I look at the old photographs
and you seem so young –
so much younger
than I am today - and so thin –
staring off-frame beyond the camera.
What were you looking for
in those fields?

I can see you sorting the stones,
stacking them -
building and unbuilding
and rebuilding the walls
and  terraces
until the walls were true
and the terraces level
and planted with dogwood,
birches, soft grass for bare feet,
and bordered with roses.

Did you know
that you were building my castle?
That the highest terrace
would be my tower and keep?
I remember calling out to my
knights, my legionnaires,
and tribesmen –
rallying them in defense
of the citadel –  ready for
the coming siege.

I also remember looking out
across that verdant kingdom
for the last time -
no longer a king or a boy –
and miles away, across the river
to the west, I imagined
the new home that awaited us.
I couldn’t know
how far away it would be
or what it meant to leave.

This morning,
as I looked out across
the garden that I have built,
I felt the weightlessness of time
and its gravity
settling me into place.
For a brief moment I had
the sensation that I was standing
on the shoulders of
gathered stones.

(for my father, Guy Spencer.)
Tom Spencer © 2015

The trail rose up
through the sand
and sage covered hills
following the sinews of a land
scoured by fire and flood.
Even the most severe carving
here was nothing
compared to the city below-
its concrete grid
glaring over my shoulder-
sprawled out,
******* on its dingy
comforter of smog-
******* up
the dust of the desert
around it.

The trail led me up.
Up past twisted
juniper bones,
past pale green yuccas
curling
fine white filagree
from their dagger blades,
past sandstone boulders
swirled like confections,
past ancient cooking pits
nested with ash,
and ghost-like hands
outlined on stone-
to a white cliff face
up-******
beneath the cloudless sky.


From a lone stump
a pinyon jay squawked
drawing my eyes down.
A sentinel
to its comrades-
who rose up
from the draw to my left
and sailed in twos and threes
sinking down into
the draw on my right.
Right before me,
around me, behind me,
first two- then six,
then tens of metallic blue
wings beating heavily against
the unfamiliar desert air.

They had come down.
Down from the scrubby
forests of pine.
Down from snow
covered slopes.
Hungry,
they searched the green
fingers of the washes-
the winter forcing them
down across the trail
that was drawing me up.
They passed close by,
wing beats feathered my ears,
first up, then down-
the sentinel
keeping an eye .


Listening, suddenly hearing
my breath beat
against the wind-
I stood motionless, perched
beyond starting
and destination-
blue wings lifting
the hunger within.


Tom Spencer © 2017

white clouds swell up
anvil bloom

a lowering gloom
scuds by

stacatto drops
on the windshield

punctuate  
powerline sway

radio crackle
sparks

sheets of tenor sax
and blunt

gusts of cool
I lower the window

and steer
into the storm


Tom Spencer © 2018

standing behind
a wall of reflections

gazing into a canyon
of steel and glass

movement
from the opposite wall

a curtain sways
and a silhouette turns

from the glinting
and the figure

standing
in the polished glare

Tom Spencer © 2018

moon faced
door mat cat

velvet tent ears
and stripes

faintly glowing
in the kitchen light

eyes track
my routine

paws tucked-under
quiet, waiting


Tom Spencer © 2018

black bee
head first in a

hibiscus flower
waxy pollen beads

dabbled down
its gleaming back

foraging done
it shimmies out

to spy the next
allurement

darting and hovering
as it chooses its mark

close enough
to feel its pulsing whir

breeze the hair
on my arm

I hover too
allured

and unfurled
before turning to dart

through this
shimmering world


Tom Spencer © 2018

The donkey and the ox
what a racket they must have made!
Munching on the straw
from the crib in the manger.

Such thick headed beasts!
How did our Savior survive
with all of His toes -
His swaddling free of slobber?

Imagine, if you will
their warm grassy breath forming
little clouds that were filled
with His radiance.

And pity poor Joseph
asleep, off to the side, and Mary
completely exhausted.
For, while resting, they missed

what soft brown eyes sensed -
that before shepherd or angel
or wise man arrived, a feast
had been set for the taking.


(For Sherry Smith)
Tom Spencer © 2018

clouds race by
like kites with broken strings

trees sway
naked branches rattle

cold wind
stings my ears

you ask why I love
the winter

sycamore leaves tumble
and swirl through the garden

brittle sails
crackling air



Tom Spencer © 2018

distant hills
drifting
in a sea of grass

waves
slip from stone
grasping nothing

winter evening -
crows glide in and gather
on the roof tops

diesel grit
blackens the fog -
a passing train

sipping dew -
a moth flutters down
the dripping eave

Molokai:

waking up -
a bird calls
- a gecko responds

no wind, no waves -
an empty boat is swamped
by the sunset

(after Dogen)

Tom Spencer © 2018

on an island
of shade in the mid-day sun
- a stranded cow


Tom Spencer © 2017

a serpentine plume
of saharan dust

unveiled by radar
an ocean spanning

exhalation
of opaque

talcum haze
seeping into and onto

cracks metal glass
amid caustic

simmering
and listless

longing
for cicada drill

and aircondtioned din
to mute


Tom Spencer © 2018

A shadow stumbles
through the chaos -
though nothing stands
between the moon,
the shattered icons
and blasted houses.

Conjured from
the exhaust of
ceaseless agitation,
the specter enshrouds
both the entranced
and the exalted.

This billowing
aberration -
the embodiment
of fears brewed
from loathing -
has no substance

or perception.
A ravenous void,
it slouches and bends
towards the
gilded Calvary
of conviction's end.


Tom Spencer © 2017

After the storm,
the spider fine tunes its web-
spiraling inward,
plucking at strands
strung lyre-like
between the apple branches.
   Shrinking fingers of light
slip from the underbellies
of  low slung clouds
that stream by
nearly snagging the tree tops.
   The wind fills the web
like a jib stretched out
before the slapping bow of a ship.
   Meanwhile, our small planet
hurtles forward, circling
on strands of patient gravity
spun by God knows who or what.
   Satisfied with her spinning,
the spider finally
settles into place
at the center of a billowing universe,
waiting for some small
something to come sailing by.


Tom Spencer © 2017

reading about
evening stillness
  hearing
the sparrows'
morning chatter


Tom Spencer © 2018

a door closes
and I hear him

shuffling down the hallway
his wife of sixty-six years

my mother
asleep, almost invisible

beneath the blankets
as fragile as a baby bird

he stops to wind
the grandfather clock

smiles and nods
“I smell that coffee”

ninety years-old
and still "up-and-at-em”

pills to ration
a newspaper to fetch

dishes to put away
meanwhile

back in their room
dreaming

she remembers
everything

standing by his side
she turns to meet his eyes

Tom Spencer © 2019

meditation retreat -
breaking silence to talk
to a deaf dog

chasing dragonflies-
the little boy stops to check
his empty hand

loosening the rusted gate
in the grackle's throat -
rare winter sun

a passing bus
fills my window with
its emptiness

pear blossoms scattered
on the pavement -
white petals drifting
on an oily stream

london

sunday morning, empty streets -
the clicking of unseen heels
against damp pavement

blind man

old blind man on the
street - a pretty little girl
tosses you a glance

only the wind

only the wind flows
through this dry creek bed-
it was your glance
that set me adrift

westcave

echoing against
the walls of the cave -
the silence of our embrace

one by one these words
fall - paper stars burning in
the fire of your arms

cow creek

silhouette of pine
against the moonlit sky -
from this motionless cloud
the voice of an owl

winter sun

stretching out to fill
a sliver of sun
as it arcs across the floor
the cat watches me
through narrowing eyes.

cold front clouds

cold front clouds
blown taut across the sky -
blue grey skin
stretched thin
over the exposed ribs
of the season

empty branches black with rain -
but the stream is filled with gold


Tom Spencer © 2018

cold morning light
streams through
the concrete cathedral
beneath the highway

the clouded breath
of a homeless man
glows and curls
in the golden air

cars accelerate
and the wisp is swept
into dim
and hardened shadows


Tom Spencer © 2018

dawn light
silhouettes the branches

dried leaves clatter
on the rooves and driveway

cardinal song
pierces the highway thrum

behind the rotting fence
a dog sniffs, whines and growls

the swimming pool scrubber
splashes and sinks with a shudder

one after the other descending planes
roar and then fade away

even in this labyrinth
of suburban sameness

everything is emerging
declaring itself

and then slipping away
like the feral cat

one moment
eyes locked on mine

next moment
disappearing behind the garage

Tom Spencer © 2018

twisting path
in the sky -
crow chasing
a dragonfly



Tom Spencer © 2018

dry creek bed
a silvery flow
slips between
sun baked stones -
canyon wren song

Tom Spencer © 2018

I wake in the darkness
distressed

the rain has stopped
no sound of dripping leaves

I think about your words
when we parted

you are worried
that now that I have

learned how to love
I might look for another

the heat is oppressive
I get up and turn on a fan

here I am alone
anxious longing wondering

if you are awake
and listening for rain


Tom Spencer © 2018

black dirt
turned belly up
steam ironed
flat to the horizon
furrows filled
with cotton drifts


Tom Spencer © 2018

awakened
in the middle of the night
by unexpected rain
pattering the roof
and dripping off of the leaves
I guess I should have watched
the forecast
but I am glad that I didn’t
even in this wet season
a surprise visit
from an cherished friend
reassures this sleepy old man
and sets me adrift
dreaming of spring

Tom Spencer © 2018

temple garden
pebble waves break
against islands of
moss and stone
pink cherry petals
drift on the tide

Tom Spencer © 2018

Life is the answer to the stars’
first question: Am I known?



Beyond the reflections and grime
of my office window
a pair of crows
is grooming one another
on top of a powerline pole.

Gently, he works his sturdy beak
along the nape of her neck
- and then she responds,
rubbing the edge
of her beak against his.

Two sets of obsidian eyes
- just lashes apart -
join for a moment’s mirroring -
an ember of knowing
alight in a jet-black world.

Leaning against the glass
the pulse of my breath
clouds and clears -
forming beaded wings that
ascend and then, disappear

into the longing
to be known.


Tom Spencer © 2017

hearing the
plaintive notes

I scan the
branches

but no flash
of yellow

or acrobatic
flits

hidden singer
wistful song

lesser goldfinch

who dared give you
that name


Tom Spencer © 2018

drinking coffee
on my front porch

listening to the
doves wake up

a plaintive coo
sounds from the oak

and after a pause
a wavering echo

from the elm
and then another

in the distance
almost drowned out

by the highway din
I drift away

now I am back
and I wait

but the conversation
has ended

gray dawn light seeps
through the trees

my cup has grown
cold and empty


Tom Spencer © 2018

I guess they've adapted
to our debris

the wedge of geese
flying north

over south bound traffic
the hawks perched

on top of
parking lot poles

and the great blue heron
paddling air

with enormous wings
shadowing hissing lawns

and lifeless pools
but what about us

hands clenched
on wheels

weary eyes scanning
mirrors and windshields

wingless and waiting
for red to turn green


Tom Spencer © 2018

soaked with dew
one thousand dandelion puffs
glitter in the slanting light
from a distance - crystal blooms
close by - a yard full of weeds
and yet... oh Issa
and yet...

Tom Spencer © 2019

turning a corner
my headlights catch
a great horned owl
sailing through the darkness
wings outstretched
gliding on a cold north wind
a phantom conjured
by unyielding hunger
set aloft and still verging
from shadow to shadow
hours later
in the warmth of my room


Tom Spencer © 2018

thick clouds of mist
shroud the trees

heard then seen
cedar wax wings

pierce the gloom
their eager

shrill chatter
hungering for spring


Tom Spencer © 2019

wanting to share
your wonderful light
with one who
shines just as bright
and walks the same
paths that you do
   you remain alone
and willing to stay
as I must
until that day
when beside you
you discover
this light
my love
this wonder


Tom Spencer © 2018

long hidden
now seen

ten thousand
rain lilies

echo
summer's end

Tom Spencer © 2018

drifting back to
sleep

listen
senses sharpen

an owl
sounds the darkness

distant
and then nearby

again
three muted hoots

pulses
from a hidden perch

where wide eyes
scan

for quivering
breath

in the shadows
undercover

ears wired
for wings


Tom Spencer © 2018

waking from a dream
of combing through
forgotten files
with neatly labeled folders

under “warblers”
I found a cellophane
envelope enfolding
a black and white bird

I opened the envelope
and the bird awoke
fluffing its feathers
in a cloud of dust

I offered
an outstretched
palm of seeds
which the bird ignored

hopping onto my finger
it glanced out the window
and sang -
forget the seeds

forget my name
open the window
- which I did
and it flew away

Tom Spencer © 2018

a wisp of smoke rises
from the ash and embers

and curls into
the cold morning air

a group of scrub jays
hop from stone-to-stone

around the fire ring
enjoying the lingering warmth

and satisfying their curiosity
about the noisy intruders

I lift my coffee mug
to my lips

and they disappear
into the junipers

and wild persimmons
their raspy calls

reminding me
that I am on their turf

Tom Spencer © 2018

fading light dissolves
into a lowering cloud of snow
  a distant bell sounds the trees
ice bound branches toll


Tom Spencer © 2018

cloud mountains
rise above the plains

a veil of gray
sweeps the horizon

wind brings
the scent of rain

cars rush past
heading for the city

breathe in deeply
just plowed soil

just mowed field
listen

distant thunder
insect rattle

grass rustling
cars roaring

we live in troubled times
blind unbound

deaf to calm
solicitation

time's relentless
propulsion and hissing

churning pressing
my family is waiting

I turn back to my car
both sated and shaken

reminded to breathe
to see to be filled

even for a moment
to be grateful

that grass and field
soil and wind

and gauzy far-off rain
will defy our clamor

and complaint
and will remain


Tom Spencer © 2018

a murmuration of starlings
shivers over an empty parking lot

blue sky emerges from the gloom
and then disappears again

indifferent to my approach, a stray cat
yawns and blinks its copper eyes

grackles gather on the powerlines
in the middle of the day

weeks early, autumn winds
chase leaves down the sidewalks

anxious about the fate of the nation
I search for signs and portents

a wave crests and then is gone
I comfort myself by remembering

that it has always been so

Tom Spencer © 2018

white wings
gleaming in the sun

a flashing pendulum
swinging steadily

back and forth
across the field

a cloud of egrets
stalks the tumult

churning from
the tractor’s wake


Tom Spencer © 2019

hidden away
the cool spring

that flows into
our turbulent lives

an unclouded
surfacing

that washes away
our cares

its current
lifting us always

through the roar
of outflowing

and the mirror still
reflections

of this calm
and sheltered cove


Tom Spencer © 2018

spring wind
cloud shadows race by
over the field
a lone crow
dives twists and glides


Tom Spencer © 2018