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

riding the top-most
branch of the tree

as it bows to the wind
the crow dips down

and then
thrusts its beak upwards

cracking
the black wedge

it calls out
and ***** its head

listening -
off in the distance

beyond the glass
unheard by me

it detects a response
and glances over its shoulder

meeting my gaze
for a moment

each other looking
seeing and being seen

and then it
launches into the breeze

leaving me sailing
in a black eye’s bead



Tom Spencer © 2019

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

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


Tom Spencer © 2018

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

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

garden hum
yellow bell flowers
rung by bees

Tom Spencer © 2018

buzzard shadow
melts
in a two lane
mirage

in the dust of a
tractor's wake -
a churning cloud
of egrets


Tom Spencer © 2018

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

suspended
holding my breath

as the crow floats down
lightened

before landing
wing tips fluttering

talons extended
reaching

for the top
of the powerline pole



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

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

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

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

leaves shiver
windows rattle

but no rain falls
waking to the

unsettled edges
of a skirting storm

I find myself
drawn once again

a visitor to this place
this precipice

very briefly
brimming full

of possibility
and promise

but instead
like an autumn leaf

I answer
the gentle summons

and drift back into
the well of dreams


Tom Spencer © 2019

after weeks of drought
waking up to thunder

and torrents of rain
flashes illuminate the darkness

silhouetting the trees
hail stones pound the roof

and shred the new leaves
lights flicker, windows rattle

as I peer out of the door
none of this compares

to the storm in my heart
your last words to me -

"I guess it is the two of us now"
yet, you are far away

and I am left thirsting
alone and uncertain

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

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

early autumn
a stiff north breeze

sweeps away
the oppressive heat

two crows
are nestled down

in the swaying leaves
below my window

beak touching beak
a brief inkling

of intimacy
before they rise

one after the other
strapping black wings

straining
then sailing

two exultant caws
cast into the wind

Tom Spencer © 2018

two silhouettes
on the overpass

one head down
looking at her phone

the other waving
a plastic wand

trailing soap bubbles
in the morning light


Tom Spencer © 2019

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

a swirl of leaves -
shriveled fingers
clutching wind



Tom Spencer © 2018

plum trees in bloom -
yesterday floating clouds
today wind blown snow


Tom Spencer © 2018

crow's back
metallic sheen
strapping wings
scale the breeze
feather tips flutter
caw calling swagger
spring caw spring




Tom Spencer © 2018

false dawn
street light
a globe of mist
leaves drip
owl trills
my breath


Tom Spencer © 2018

winter
fence row
on the wire
and in the stubble
buzzards hunch
in a circle


Tom Spencer © 2018

twisting path
in the sky -
crow chasing
a dragonfly



Tom Spencer © 2018

reading about
evening stillness
  hearing
the sparrows'
morning chatter


Tom Spencer © 2018

hot summer morning
fleeting sheen
of her bare shoulder
when the clouds part


Tom Spencer © 2018

underneath
the dripping ferns -
frog song


Tom Spencer © 2018

after the rain
scattered petals
plum blossom path


Tom Spencer © 2018

Bats dart in and out
of the gathering light
I glance up at the moon
so clear against the sky
- forgetting my task
the watering can
stretches my arm



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

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

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

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

slow stepping
through tall grass

the deer
navigates the meadow

by blazing starlight
head high, ears alert

stopping from time to time
to snort and stomp

sensing the unseen presence
holding its breath

a shiver amongst the shadows
of this leafless grove

Tom Spencer © 2019