The leaves have fallen.
The ground, a dwelling bottom.
The shooting stars have splintered
into the coldest winter.

I, myself turned
from golden crimson
to burned. Charred leaves
all cover the streets. Only blackest

ravens fly. The end draws nigh.
I hold my cup up to the moon
for dewdrops of the spring draw
soon. As I see ****** buds poking holes

into the bloods I awaken. And the world
breaks into the greenest pasture.
We'll have a morning after.
The song of the lark and blooming crocus
makes us focus.

that swings by
my side. And hangs as
a cracked branch in the wind,
that hasn’t fallen off. I’ve had

men and friends as heavy, that
weighed me down as a levy. Every turn
or twist is a mangled cyst. Ever have
a match pair that doesn’t evenly

wear? If I had an ax I’d lop off
the sad timber. No point as it isn’t
limber. The stars I see aren’t shiny. No, I’d
say they’re spiny.  A hanger-oner

is like carrying an empty suitcase
with the zipper stuck in place that takes up
all my space. And the teeth of the zipper biting
into my flesh as lightning.

would you hold a fluted glass
and fill it to the top
and make a toast as the host
of the raindrops?

If it snowed vanilla ice-cream
would you place a bowl
under the sky
and squirt caramel swirls
adding sprinkles of walnuts
and a spoon on the side?

If the wind blew you a strawberry kiss
would you catch it in a wave
and return the bliss
mixed with chocolate shaves?

I hear the roaring rapids
splashing up their spray. And the pine
needles waltzing in the hay, as I
shuffle my feet along the path. A drop

of dew is the morning bath
to the black, cloaked ant. The grey squirrels
can’t sit still. Running, climbing
and chasing on fours. Nature, my friend

is never a bore! Golden, crimson
marmalade of shade are the trees in
autumn. Ferns are the fans for the dwellers
of earth’s bottom. A butterfly circles

a shy violet, as a robin plays pilot
in the clouds. The crowds of scurrying
chipmunks dash into the crevice of
a stone fence.

And I lose my sense of place
as I’m face to face with a doe, lowering
her spotted head at my toes.

through a straw. The puddles,
big as poodles. I slurped them up
as noodles. But now I drown
face down from past reverie, in
shadows of a memory.

I used to eat my Rage
sprinkled with thyme and
sage. But now it simmers on
the stove mingled with oranges
and clove.

I used to hang my poetry
on the line to catch the
sunshine. But it has fallen
off and choked up in my cough.

of rock. His arms are a
chisel. As he swivels
he chips off a piece. But not
square and neat. The jagged edge

scratches his head. The more he
sheds of the stone the smaller
it stands, until the rock fits
in his hands. It could have been

Washington or Lincoln. He's thinking
in color that went from red to yell
her. He just skips it now. But it doesn’t
bounce. Not part of the water, it sinks

down to the bottom. Living in a black
cave, a watery stave, life dances around
it. But home is the desert.

of eyes
that can see
a peony
from poison ivy
and hold it close
to so breast
and with eyes
caress

I yen for a clean set
of ears
that can hear
a harpsichord
from nails
on a chalk board
and dance to the notes

I yen for a clean set
of lips
that can string
a song
from a holler
sing the beauty
without a collar
take a cracked, dried frown
turn it upside/down