Illusions of skydiving in a kimono
are not nightmares that awaken her
in a sweat each night

Fantasies of floating like a drone
creep into morning daydreams

Unprepared for make-believe
no kimono hangs in her closet

Each day she stands in front
of her full-length mirror
stares at perceived imperfections
as they thicken before her eyes

Friends don’t notice
each misplaced mole
or cellulite pleading
to hide from any
audience

Co-workers notice her
post-it-note headline

“Intelligent Perfect Women
Skydives in Kimono”

affixed to the cubicle wall

Today results of
her search for kimonos
of various colors
is carefully placed in
a folder entitled skydiving

Today all carp are swimming high
in swirling waters.  Autumn
calls them to flip sideways and glance skyward

Industrious people prepare homes
for the ravages of winter
cocooning foundations with bales of straw

Storm windows prop against scaffolds
like volumes balancing
between bookends on library shelves

Each evening doors close and shut tight
locking out lonely shadows
in search of a bed before sunrise

Skin dark from summer rays fade away
Evenings edge closer to night,
fish form schools in the lake’s warm bottom

Dakota is preparing for winter

Morning coffee
spills on the kitchen counter
grains of Christmas Blend
a gift
don’t remember who
was so thoughtful

Never scramble eggs
with a mixture of
eggnog
so sweet

Time for morning
medications
nothings to do
still so much to
remember

Morning pill
respond to e-mail
mid-morning pill
call your mother
forgot
no phones
in paradise

Perhaps
I should
make a list

Where did
I put
my
pencil

She feels no confusion
with her lips against his eye.
Eyes blue as a
deep mountain lake.
She senses comfort
resting across her
chest, like the first time
her cheek touched his
bicep when they walked
enmeshed.
Now feels so warm,
soft on her mind
for fear has
fallen to the trail.
Renewal of trust
reborn fills her heart.

I wonder
how our great creator
built a vessel
strong enough
to contain my soul?

Each day my spirit fights
against my skin with violent
jolts as a young bird
seeking exit from a cage.

Unfettered psyche
free from me
bounces among clouds
rolls through deserts,
climbs volcanic ridges
migrates with birds in flight.

Curious instincts guide
my vital force inside and out
like honey bees
scour zinnias in full bloom.

Dare I release my spirit today?

No confusion wrinkles her forehead, eyes affixed first on his lips
until magnetically drawn to eyes blue as a mountain lake.
Comfort rests across her chest. Hips burn together and
her cheek brushes the ironclad hardness of his bicep.
They walk enmeshed. Traces of trepidation, 
scars embedded in her mind from tragic romance, fade. 
Residual fears fall to the trail among twigs and stones.
Rebirth of trust creeps into her heart. 
Together their feet trample her qualms.

It’s spring 
on the shore
near Isle of Palms
their toes dig deep 
in wet sand 

until shards of shells 
fashion a strip 
that challenges their soles
as they tiptoe forward

A faint-hearted rainbow
bridges sea to sky above 
while they walk 
along the wind blown shore

She sees the arch of colors as an omen 
that love fades
like the bronze backs of teenagers 
turn pale in autumn’s shadows

He regards the
vague glow
as a pristine promise
that their love will grow.

He attempts to link 
fingers as a sign of endearment.
She smiles, swings her hands in rhythm
and quickens her pace before him

shelves filled
pages turned
podcasts downloaded
unfinished soundtracks
surrounded by media
mostly lies
pulpits visited
sermons forgotten

silence beckons
sit, notice
insight sifts

mist becomes
droplets
comfort
contentment

absorb this moment
search no more

advertisement beckoned
free screening
trouser thuds upon hardwood
metal belt buckle clinks
gloved finger
probes to find
a nodular protrusion
resting sac bound
begotten, benign
now watch, wait

shall it birth
some high grade
tumor
with a passionate
desire to consume
the whole of you

vigilant
on guard
living
on edge
for inevitable
struggle
around each
new scrutiny
of numbers
presented in decimals
detectors of death
prowling
seeking to find
an oasis
to plant
to grow

Bread is gray, molding
No toast and jam this morning
Food for chickadee

Still in your pink sleeper
Poking your smartphone

I watch the raindrops
playing dribble on the patio

Looking over plastic frames
You search through missives

Dark eyes still intriguing
Captivating as our first encounter

Still overwhelming
This urge to embrace

Tell me am I love
or am I suffering
Am I stepping into the black
or into purity
So purity is white
and white is purity
Am I noticed for love
or projecting my suffering
hoping to be on stage
for all to see
Love is pure
Suffering is pure
Love is marred
as are flecks
pitting the whole
of suffering

Entertainment comes in many forms
One without Nielson ratings
presents daily shows
below the garage gutter

Weathered leather shoestring
strains under the weight
of unfilled feeder
long exposed to wind
and air until
it's original surface
contains only flecks
of it's original varnish

When filled, squares of suet cakes
fitted between wire grids
entice chickadees
early in the day
before nuthatches, wren
and downy woodpeckers
peck and feed on the
nut, corn and protein
snack.  Bluejays struggle
without success to
hang sideways and gather
specks of nuts from the tallow.

Other large birds, cardinal
and red-bellied woodpecker
show-up the jay as they feed
with ease at the suet rack

Each day suet sinks
slowly descending until
little is found by
winged visitors

Begrudgingly he rises
from his chair, tramps to the
garage to find a new
insert for the feed box.
Hands, weathered like the
pine of the feeder
unpack the next cake
to refresh the lure
as the scenery of wild birds
return to their feeding
and refill his soul

His eyes squinted
carefully scanning
three hazy photos
taken in black and white
undated of two mountains
rising behind a bridge
crossing a river

Was it France?
Arizona, Dakota
Probably not Dakota
Few hills there
Maybe along the Danube
Yet no signs of vineyards
along the river banks

Travel broadens one
with indistinct memories
Places that inspired
yesterday and today
remain as slight fabrics
and experiences
absorbed and fuzzy
resting in a corner
of his mind

Some days
the wind blows in
gentle massaging gusts

Today a temporary
wisp rushes
through the tall
oak leaf hydrangea
pushing the brown and green
branches dressed for August
to wave at me through the window

Saying no more
it dances away
like a ruby throated
hummingbird seeking
it's nectar

At ten
I skip through opportunity
eyes focused
across the bridge

At thirty
each day
duties and plans,
surround me
to smother every dream

At fifty
sons and daughters
abandon my side
to swim
in their own soup

At eighty
days are handled
like worry beads
strung on a broken cord

Aging arms
splotched with purple and red
signs of tangling
with jagged dead branches
reach for a copy
of Ted Kooser's *
Flying at Night
.
Pages flip
for a stop here and there
to read _Sunset,
Carp and _Spring Plowing

Envy swells inside him
with the realization
that he will never
write such fine poems
about memories
of childhood adventures

Like Kooser
he was reared
living rural
among tiger lilies
blooming in meadows,
amid newborn calves
teetering toward first steps,
and around
freshly spread manure
capturing the scent of fall air

His fingers still grimy
from early morning planting
place the volume
carefully beside
his empty coffee cup
content that he is blessed
to have discovered Kooser's work

He rises to tackle
digging potholes
for double begonias
to decorate his yard
and to dream
his dream
of pages unread.
and pages unwritten.

There is this debate each time
Within my head you see
Will perfection be my goal
Or will wisdom be my guide

There is a crack in everything
A mark, a flaw not all can see
Still there to be detected
By those like you and me

To hone to make faultless
Takes effort few endure

Others fashion some blemish
Intentional ding so slight

Because to strive for pure
Is playing god
Which is a sin for sure

Extinction

Together they sit
Watching morning rain nourish
A dying planet

Together they sit
Swallowing daily reports
Attempts to save earth

Together they sit
Feeling gradual demise
Of their own bodies

Each day there is the morning walk
to gather the morning news in print

An amble back to a rocking chair
comfort for consuming coffee
and attempts to ingest current events

Soon the coffee is gone
followed by another cup
News columns are skimmed
like a dragon-fly skits across
the still of an evening pond

Skittish has become a life-style
concentration a foreign word
completion evasive
By nighttime there is
an abundance of projects,
goals, desires left to await
revisitation - revisitation never happens
as  new distractions fulfill
the daily routine
of living in the moment

I'm older than FM radio,
I grew up when it was normal
to hate your enemies.

“****” and “Nip” were taught
as appropriate
and wars raged
on air, land, and sea.

Food stamps rested with coins
before situational ethics
made life grayer than gray.

Might did not make right,
Right made right!

I don’t know if “then” was better.
I know it was different
and I was at play.

Judgment had an extra “e.”
It was a different day and
no one knew who I was.

Walking alone
along the neighborhood greenway
aware of unique colors and sounds
normally hidden
or camouflaged by toxic thoughts
that chip away beauty

Centered upon each step
each swing
of first
the left arm
then right arm
signals of life

Noting strength
surging through
each calf and thigh
careful attention
of each intricate
movement of a body
complex as spider webs
on a damp morning
braiding from a woven-wire fence

Notice each moment
see how each second
contains now again

I was told when six
lighted smokes show up for miles
during a blackout

Toward home, Christmas eve
lighted candles on tree bough
pierce through dark windows

Moonlight can become
bright enough to cast shadows
beneath my movements

To grow into a shell
behind a screen unintentionally
put in place
by our own actions
happens gradually
like a storm forms
along a distant horizon

First come thoughts of doubt
vapors white against the sky
clouds of fear
that others know more about life
that they walk firmly
while our feet shift
with each cautious step

Within our shells
our shoulders never
touch those we meet
our eyes dart away from
others afraid of what we
will find in their glance

To stay behind the shell
leads to distorted
comfort, a slow numbness
crawling through one's mind
then the body acquiesces
as contentment
is discovered within loneliness

Chic ankle boots
have enough hardness
that each step she takes
clicks it's announcement
at each pew along
the granite aisle leading
to a holy altar with padded rail
where she hopes to attain forgiveness

Two tall graceful daughters
become her bookends while
she stands in prayer
Later seated between them
her right hand, unadorned
brushes a wisp of hair from
her daughter's cheek

Fingers slender, strong
hands of a healer
She carries on
alone and unadorned
awaiting absolution

Each morning I awake
with a renewed hope
that my walk, my sifting
through the day
will become seamless
like the dreams of my nights
that flow from place to place
without barriers, or hindrances
to empathy, to understanding
Like the water seeps through the soil,
as the breeze blows through the leaves
in my dreams each of us
fully gather thoughts,
feelings and desires of each other
All relationships ensue
unescorted by impediments
My fear is that
few others dream this dream
rather haunted by
nightmares that bleed
into reality, nightmares
of violence, poverty, despair
of pockets of hell
growing around them
on this earth

There is a sensual surge
swelling  near the pit of his stomach
signaling his surprise
as through the door
drifts her query
"Would you like a margarita?"

Mid-day madness,
folly or playful fun
the tingle evokes
"Yes, I'll take one."

Eyes gazing  off to the distance
while fingers cup the chilled glass
Quizzical musings
and wonderment fill his thoughts
recalling  how this ensued
How could she still instill and
ignite a twinge within him
reminiscent of
when he first
locked his view on her eyes
and said "I really like you.
I really, really like you."

I forget how old you are
and I remember digging
red clay hard from the summer
sun and heat

What a slender twig you were
accepting my  grip around your base
and the dirt around your roots

You grew mostly without my notice
leaping upward and outward
until all who passed admired
how sturdy your branches,
how rich your needles

Now you tower, shading hosta
and embracing the dogwood
beside you
even though it puts on airs

This season you spill
brown needles
like a dog shedding
its winter coat

I expect you will
linger long after
I perish

I had a dream of white pines
writing poems
I wonder if you noticed me
if you will long for me
not passing by, I wonder
do pines formulate poems
and will you ever
write one about me.

Skirt so yellow and bright

Eyes blue and wide,

with lips pursed right.

“Where is your joy,” she sighs?

Cotton shows years of wear

still flows yellow,  and bright.

Her lean body craves to share

him hard and yielding tonight.

After she threw the bridal wreath

their joy spilled like carpenter’s glue.

No longer did they sample from beneath

yellow skirt and sweater taut and blue.

Her scent is a flower named dangerous,

so he struggles, pulls away; all the while

wanting his graying head to rest

upon her breast and relish the joy in her smile.

There is sincerity in her eyes
as she says she reads my poetry
out loud
to herself
to practice
speaking without
cracking her voice

I wonder if
the flush spreading
into my face,
pinking my cheeks
is from
pride, embarrassment
or a mixture of
these two emotions
fighting for recognition

Take time
to wrap your arm
around a child
warm against your chest
teach him to train his eyes
on falling leaves

Take time
to point your finger
toward squirrels dancing
across branches to their
nest-home perched
atop the tulip poplar
towering over the back yard

Take time
to trace a
two year old hand
outline each finger
leave living imprints
beyond mere paper
into the next
generation

We know what peace is
And we know how to do war
Now, let us do peace

Corner curtains close to encircle
souls bearing poems
scratched on manila pads or
formed on computers
to await a reading

amid clangs of ceramic cups
stainless steel utensils
and cream pitchers.
  
Carlo’s throat cracks while
he recalls running his fingers
over dry scaly skin
tolerating the heat rising in his body
as he befriends  
snakes coexisting in his camp

Mokasiya narrates adventures 

along rock mesas
formed and shaded
red, orange and tan
and how grasses turn brittle and dry
nearly dissapearing
amid enormous grasshopper swarms  .
.
A young woman sings and plays poetic
lyrics of struggles
lamenting that she should have
given in to the hot rage in her throat
to shoot and **** the *****
who corrupted her father’s marriage

Corner curtains open
as words and phrases
remain to die
among the chairs
mixing with the sawdust
on the hardwood flooring
unlikely to become
reborn, reread or recorded

Part of her is scarred

and she wraps that spot

with scarves, high collars

or extra mascara.

Remnant traces

ring her shoulder.

Embittered echoes
careen 
around her brain.

His self-inflicted torture

spills over onto her

as his crazed lashes
strike her 
bone deep.


Musty smells

from those moments

linger among
her nostril mucus.

She carries on

unable to attain

her forgiveness.

Bad luck decorates her branches

flashing on and off
like
 strings of lights
on a holiday tree.

Misfortune glows

as if fueled by noonday sun

under cloudless sky.
Each day she longs

for someone who might notice,

turn some switch
dim the lights
pull a plug
and
 diminish her pain.
No hero lurks nearby
on prancing steed.

Don’t filaments fray

and bulbs fail to ignite

one more time?

Gazing at furry paws

smacking white cord pulls

mesmerizes her.

Wooden tassels clunk together,
waving to and fro
like a tetherball
on a playground pole

spanked by busy children.


He left his kitten

his curious kitten.

Outside snowflakes

float downward

like the pieces of paper

she shred from his exit note
and like bits of cotton

the kitten pulls from her pillow.


He left his kitten,

his curious kitten.

Her hands clasp together.

She utters no prayer.

Downcast she cannot face her Lord.

Her red streaked eyes,

accented by ash colored cheeks

study playful kitten.

Her thoughts clink together

as she slaps them around her mind.

He left his kitten,

his curious kitten.

He left.

He left her.

One side of her face flush
red, like she has been slapped
hard, broadsided

Since the report
her searches on Google
garner extensive lists

of indecipherable medical terms
inciting fear, fuzzy thinking
as despair shrouds her essence

Everything is measured and sized
Necklaces gaudy and gay,
Rings of different carets
mingle near gold and silver bangles
 
No scale or ruler
marks distances between them
Templates screen words
of spontaneous bluntness
 
Turn the apple
toward the worm's
tip peaking through the skin
Cull the fruit  from the basket
 
Between ardent glances
and shallow breaths-
an awareness of nourishment
beneath peeled skin
 
All realize
one seldom cuts
delicious melon
without spilling some juice

A scent of lavender colors the room
as her metal clipped heels
announce her arrival
One thought rolls over and over
in his mind
like a bird pecking on suet
They had reached a tipping point
in their relationship
He knows how to spell commitment
and rejects the mere smell of it

Her arm curls out
reaches around him
as she presses her greeting against him
a greeting that carries
a pressure to decide

As she smiles her hello
her eyes search
every crease in his face
looking for a sign
that he wants them to be real
real enough to step
together on the same path

What she finds  
is a vagueness
pooling in his eyes
a resolute tightness
covering his jutting jaw
a signal that he is sliding
around and away
from a vow, a promise
of a future together

Like swimming in molasses
trying to ascend
hoping to begin
to get where I want to be

Swimming in molasses,
can’t get there from here
as a robot in first gear
trying to go with the flow

Swimming in molasses
waiting for the gooey
mass to warm
for me to find my way

Swimming in molasses,
Grandma’s Gold Standard all natural kind
dark, black-brown viscid glue
that holds and restricts

I’m swimming in molasses
deliberate, lethargic,
lagging, leaden, swirling toward
the promise that awaits me

There must be a next step --
all middle steps appear broken

Spit out like a used razor blade
sitting with *** cheeks
barely on stone steps
face burning beneath the acne
swelling across the cheek,
It must have been her pimples
why else would anyone reject her?

Columbine came first
Followed by pink cleome
Pretty invaders

Self-seeding landscape rulers
Growing wild like Queen Annes Lace

My eyes played tricks,
not moving to the monitor
but pulling toward
that sound of sipping tea

The soft whooshing captured my focus.
Mind following eyes - -
I was on my back
basking in the sun - -
gazing at the clouds

Her emanation was sapphire blue,
emerald green tinged crimson
at the edges -  -
monitor and mind together went
blank. I sat in a trance
until the emotion crept

slowly up my neck then down my back.
She gave me a glance.
She finished her tea
shuffled some paper, left the place

A dancer without music,
the glide out graceful.
Her glimmering aura disappeared
as she faded into the day

Adorned once again
in somber black,
standing in a row
all inhale an aroma
of purifying incense
from burning charcoal
inside a Thurible
flowing in coherence
with the arm of the balding priest
who prances as a peacock,
circling three times past the altar table.

Buttocks bump against
weathered and worn
relic pews.
Muscles strain to tighten hamstrings
sending messages  
telling the body to please sit.

Tears flow without
the gush that erupted a year ago.
Now the gentle drain
is like shallow
hillside waterfalls in autumn.
Grievous pain is so familiar except
the lava of volcanic emotions
has cooled.
Tissues passed from hand to hand
as those who  anticipated
the display
take care of those
sure they would not cry
or who merely denied
the tempo of the day.

Incantations dwell near the icons
splashed gloriously on the wall.
Chants to forgive sins
of the deceased
combine with pleas
for divine intervention
to elevate the Valhalla home
upward a notch or two.
Blessed wine and sacred bread
distributed to all
who keep the faith
as did the beloved son,
husband, and brother.

Thunder rolls like
rocks banging down
a mountain creek
during a downpour

Sheets of rain
blow across the lawn
as splashes bend
pink coneflowers
toward the hostas
and paved avenue
becomes a fleeting river

Bolts of light
flash through the
window evoking
fear of a strike
and the smell
of sulphur

Now the cardinal
damp from rain
reflects full sunshine
True to its name
it sits like a flame
atop the iron pole
lifting the bird feeders

Parting waves
of distant rumbles
say goodbye

He stands before her
as surveying a Renoir, overwhelmed
by red splashes from her nails, her lips
Entranced by her sparkling blue eyes
and hair swept across her shoulders
its crackle, as wind blown fields of barley
Her words cool him as though
dipped in Box Elder Creek
Her moves have the grace of cirrus skies

He thinks this is a settling place
fit to build a homestead

Twister
Demolishes town
Strangely named
Flat Gap
Ironic

I returned home

on Palm Sunday

to find knockout roses

behind my brick mailbox

parading their first blossoms of spring.

I found candytuft

faded to green,

safeguarding scattered sprinkles of white

for me to view one more day.

Fallen pink petals from dogwood trees

fluttered through a whimsical ballet

to entertain me on a ballroom floor

of Kentucky bluegrass.

Dogwoods, azalea, and periwinkle are different.
Something happened 
while I was away,
while I snapped photographs

of starfish captured by the sand

when evening tide

quickly rolled out to sea.


Blossoms opened

as other petals
faded and fell.

Fresh blossoms flowered

and youthful buds now greet the sun.
Did you care that I was gone

in the midst of your glory

to savor other beauties
different joys --
did you even miss me?

He remembers auburn hair

like the color
flickering before him

along Hwy 261.
Thoughts of yesterday

fill his mind 
on this journey.

Roan Mountain fades

as he steadies the wheel

beside the constant stream
of white hyphens
on the blacktop.

Flashes of her

blend into the mountains.
He dwells on her

and their daughter
who now flaunts ringlets

bright as the autumn patches

among the forest display.

While he’s driving
the rear view mirror
reflects 
his creased forehead

like his mother grew
from her many worries.

Travel grants him time 

to think of them.
“Mistakes were made.”

A cop-out rests in that thought:

he made mistakes.
He broods

when he’s in the driver’s seat.