Chase me
I will run
a dangerous race.

Praise me,
I will ignore headlines
and writing in the sky.

Anchor my heart
against insistent
waves.

Quell my
woody-stemmed love
afraid to grow.

Show me knowledge.
Contain my spirit.
Stay near.

Capture me
with tender hands.
Knead my soul until I rise.

Any eye casted toward
the corner of the yard
noticed how this spot,
wild and overgrown
was  like
foliage of the forest.

To her the spot was
evidence of rebellion
for it was real,
not patterned
or contrived like their days
had grown

The rugged corner drew her
to childhood memories,
smells, and signs
of the unspoiled countryside
of a time before she
became tame and docile

How could he destroy
this one rebel plot?
How could he bulldoze
the one rough-hewn patch
like he had purged
all  unpretentious blood
from her heart?

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

What mattered/
about that night/
was that he touched/
her neck/
with care/
felt deep in her bones/
and that he/
gathered her/
clothing/
clasped her ankle/
pulling it through/
one silky leg opening/
of still damp *******/
and kissed her/
inner thigh/
like he was devouring
a freshly picked/
peach
------

Cats are said to be able
to see in the dark.**
Most of us as we age, stumble
when our feet, somewhat numb
set sail slow toward
midnight's bathroom call
bouncing like boats
against strong headwinds.

Unlike a teen boy whose sharp eyes
quickly pierce darkness, I am unable
to gather flecks of sight
in deepest night.
My eyes, like my feet
find some way to fight through
years of wear and abuse to
function enough to reach
my perch of relief.

Soon the midnight treks
will become so arduous
no sexton nor settings
will keep the strengthening winds
from blowing me
to whatever shore fate
has cast for me.

Self-effacement

With time names and dates
engraved on headstones
weather beneath pelting sleet and rain
to soften carefully chiseled letters

Little by little
etchings become
blurred at the edges
indistinct and unreadable

Personality features
fade daily
hidden with words
structured into facades
readily available as a cover
from those who wish
to unearth the treasures within

What a struggle to hide
to mute or soften
eccentricities into normalities
What an effort
continual concealment
behind frights and fears
as though a child
playing hide-and-go seek with others

Self-effacement becomes
a life-style of constantly
playing a game without a prize

“Judge not”

Harsh words

For most of us

Who judge automatically

When each new experience

Brings forth a feeling

Of this is good

Or this is  bad  

Unmuted feelings become

Judgmental thoughts

I judge

So, tell me

How do I “judge not”

Do I cover my emotion

With a shroud

So often that

I become unresponsive

Or do I learn to greet

Each new experience

With openness and compassion

Showing unconditionally

Welcoming acceptance

Ideally, learning such openness

Would come with ease

In reality it seems

To take a lifetime

Bad luck
decorates her branches

flashing on and off
like 
strings of lights
on a christmas 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,

bulbs burn out

and fail to ignite

one more time?

She fashioned him an enigma
who strolled through life a closed book
unaware of his charismatic aura
She fashioned him an enigma
Her showy courtship ended in drama
He remained blind to the effort she took
She fashioned him an enigma
who strolled through life a closed book.

Many masks he kept in play
heedless of her passionate love
He continued his mysterious way
Many masks he kept in play.
Her ardor she could not betray
nor stop praying to God above
Many masks he kept in play
heedless of her passionate love

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

ears forced against the down-stuffed pillow
muffle rhythmic sounds of sleep,

perceptible crackles 

that rumble from nasal passages

and invade his sleep

(should last night be an entry-

a sin of commission?)



yesterday desire grew 
inescapable
until two bodies 
pounded into exhaustion

on a mattress musty 
and worn
from other nights like this

bird chirps and lake chills 

filter through screen windows 

unabated.



few diaries document transgressions

in this new age of free love and prosperity
sins are common and plentiful.

later a litany of ****** diseases

would make headlines
now, love is free

secretly surrounded by traps

and quandaries soon to be discovered



he awaits her awakening 

in the still of bird songs and snoring

and wonders what she will remember

of the fascinations they held

for each other yesterday

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

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

One small gripe dropped
On me over our morning meal
Unusual coming from
Across the breakfast plates

Your grimace
Accentuated what was labeled
A slight beef
To begin the day
About last night
When all of our world
Was supposedly sleeping

Most of the covers
Gathered on my side
Of our sleigh bed
Tucked around me

At least this nitpick
Was something tangible
Unlike the night before
When I danced all night
With your sister
In your dreams
While you were
Left sitting
on the sidelines

She feels no confusion
in her glance toward his eyes.
Eyes deep blue
as a mountain lake.
She senses comfort
across her
chest, like the first time
her cheek touched his
bicep when they walked
enmeshed.

Now feels so warm,
soft on the mind
for fear has
fallen to the trail.
Renewal of trust
fills her heart.
Now feels
like the first time
again.

he talks to rocks
and the sky
he shares fully with flowers
and fields of flax coated blue with open blooms
he laughs with mountain streams
flowing relentlessly toward the sea

nothing does he share with me
words come, hollow words, quiet words
absent of meaning
he appreciates each precious moment
in his world, his breath, his heartbeat, his
movements

each movement is away from me
I feel the absence of his presence

What plays most on his mind
is her mulish way and
how her stubborn words roll
off her scarlet tongue --
She's intractable.

When forehead crevasses interrupt her
softness like a fog cast over
the morning meadow,
only love can  
subdue her argument.
She's intractable.  

There is a mountain of
dissent to scale for him
to touch her tenderly.
Her noisy defiance
remains endearing to those
untouched by her resilience.
To others, she's intractable.

Watch this weathered being,
lean, hiding toughness beneath
a pale denim shirt marked with
oil stains near the collar and bare threads
across the elbow.  Blue eyes
peering from below sweat-stained straw brim
reflect the afternoon sun.

Consider words through
wind chapped lips "that's good enough"
to announce job completed, for now.
Simple words destined to ring
loud as though from a pulpit.
Clear remarks, a catchphrase,
to temper any drive toward excellence
or the disease of perfectionism.

Notice the softness of the voice,
amid rut of the sow
and cluck of the hen,
unintended philosophy that
drifts though eastward wind
spoken to convey
the end of a daily task.

Each day is
as a procession of
redundant clopping
on the ground
rhythmic sounds
that anesthetize,
mesmerize

have we become blinkered
along this trail
through life

like a steed in harness
undistracted by
glimpses of
clouds of hate
along the horizons
or seething storms
blowing in from the seas

There was a firmness
in her voice,  conviction
swimming through every line
across her withered face,
"I hope I go to bed tonight and not wake up."

Life for her now filled with hallucinations,
the fabric of prescriptions, intended to
calm and relieve, nonetheless resulting in
dreaded dreams or day-long semi-comas.
"I hope I go to bed tonight and not wake up."

Steps now few
taken with arms straining against
aluminum bars capped with rubber tips
and a stranger watching,
waiting to help her sit, wipe and
retrace her shuffle to
the high wheeled chair by the window.
"I hope I go to bed tonight and not wake up."

Her world, a waiting world
filled with shawls, quilted blankets
bland food, and echoing medicine schedules.
Her room, a blaring television set with
a remote that calls up one channel
that plays the day away.
"I hope I go to bed tonight and not wake up."

He treated her

like a princess

of a very

small empire.

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

He ran a hard race
Long strides, quick pace to stay
in his comfort zone

(senryu)

So often he attempts
to change words
he has said.
Words that he says later
do not mean
what they convey

There will never be
enough blotters, or erasers
or black markers to cover all
that he would amend
or alter if possible

A secret disclosed
once redacted
becomes evidence
that he desires his words  
to remain unconfirmed

A secret is a secret
only if concealed,
totally hidden
and never unearthed

Redaction is an action
to revoke or nullify
words and actions that
may or may not be undoable

A coin has two sides:
one, copper bright,
reflecting honey-lit tones,
the other, dark,
hiding under shadow.

A woman, too:
honey-flecked side,
shadows drape her back.

I walk near her, keen to her scent.
Darkness and honey,
mingling bouquet of a woman.

There is time for thought
During this daily walk
There is no need to achieve
No need to count steps
Or tally blocks or miles or minutes
Leisure is on-deck
Time away from work
Time away from expectations
Time when the only eyes evaluating
The steps, the distance, the pace
Is you

Pressure mounts step by step
Shifting attention from the trees
The falling leaves, the birds,
Returning to self-centered issues
Returning to thoughts that evaluate
Judgments about the past
Become concerns for the future
Has enough been accomplished
Has enough been stored
For what is to come

Current experience happens
Yet passes by
Without appreciation
Without being savored

Being becomes anxiety
Being becomes guilt
Being becomes non-being

The question is repeated
Constantly nagging
“Why is it so hard to become
Aware of the present
And why is it so hard to stay
With the moment?”

Will life be long enough
For one to accept
That this is good-enough
That this moment
Is life and it is good enough
Being here, being now

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

Who knows

Not the best of us
Nor the stargazers
Not the book readers
Nor the book writers

Especially not the politicians
Who never stop
To ask the question
Or to ask any questions

Their nature is to accumulate
Pretend to lead
Pretend to guide
Still, their nature is taking

Some pretend to tilt
toward compassion
Toward caring
Toward altruism

Me, a grizzled octogenarian
Asks no questions
Merely wonders

Where has all of the wonder gone
Is altruism real
And if it is, why is
It ******* by greed

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?

A bee is flitting with my shoulder
pecking aimlessly around my ears
plotting a plan to strangle me

If the plan evolves
I fear I will become
anchored into
the depths of grief

And invaded by drips
of senselessness,  
fierce enough
that their stench
can’t be purged
with fans, perfumes
or candles

Will the enormity
of it all kindle
a fragmentation
more taxing than
trying to complete
the Rubik’s Cube
blindfolded

If I sit next to a painting of a lady
with black hair and bare arms with long brown gloves
will I become inspired and spread
my toast with sweat from my work.

Chandeliers block every creative thought,
perhaps I might sneak them out of my ears
and onto a keyboard, or tip my head
so ideas sprawl across my bedsheets.

Nearby machines answer automatic triggers,
make noises lulling me to doze
and dream of my next line
"clouds turn color while wind blows from nowhere."

Paintings of ladies without their legs crossed
invite me to fantasize what I might have become
had I stayed in South Dakota among the corn
and herds of black angus cattle.

I cried myself to sleep last night filled
with sadness and fear over books rotting on
shelves of unoccupied libraries
with empty chairs and dusty tables.

My bald-headed best friend
read this poem five times,
failed to laugh or even smile
and said, "you are no Patricia Lockwood."

Sense of self
lost in a sea of
loveless misery.

Forget me here,
digging in muck and
festering disease.

Armor plated
calluses so thick
no compassion will pierce
the scab.

Present
Going slowly
A good time to explore
Venture toward the unknown
Gently

To win every argument
Kindles feelings of triumph
Delight in obtaining a small victory

Thrills over getting the better
Of a friend, acquaintance or fellow-being

There is a warmth of self-satisfaction
Fueling persistence
To be correct
Regardless of fact or fiction

Simple daily discussions become
Debates, disputes and sparring
That must have only one outcome
You prevail!

There must be a winner
And it must be YOU

God are you among
streams that filter through
drapes of rituals
adorning  halls
of sacred buildings?

God are you lingering
in faded ink
on pages transcribed
by scribes who claim to transmit
your wisdom?

God are you hidden
amid the din
designed to cover
the answers sought?

God are you present?

Today she listens to her body --
complexity churning beneath her skin
traces of passion bounding in her veins
as surging waves along the seashore

She guides her hands creating something
of this moment -- leaves indelible marks
to delight a student of nature

Her *******
are soft on the outside
roaring within

Today her body
grow older
moves slower
She watches
her bones rise
slowly
to meet the day

No bouncing flesh
comes with her
to face this day's
challenges
She plays
the experience card
to stay alive
one more day

Every time I hear you utter
Snort an exasperation

I notice my flinch
Tension
An arising desire
Fix, solve
Help it go
Somewhere
Outside of you or me

Thoughts roam
Across my forehead

What if
There is another way
Accepting vexations
Chagrin does not stay
When I see that part of you

On his bucket list
he wanted to commit
an original sin
was told he already had
Somehow he missed it
No one told him
if he had fun

Grab a handful
Of warm dirt
Hard between thumb and forefinger
So it spills out upon wrinkling toes

When dew hits the morning green
Write sorrows and joys
With a stick
In cursive on the ground

Savor grim and grit,
Grow earthy, real
And unafraid
To become unclean

Watch new growth sprout
To meet the day
Become like a child
Play as a child

Do spiders ever
paint themselves into corners?
Humans often do.

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

Late in the evening we chew over
     how to foil dilemmas and conflicts

Does resolution come from
     defending my ground

Or by being sure I establish
     your guilt

Is life like a court
     of law

Or a platform for
     debate

The answer may be
     far afield

In an arena where shared
     feelings and misperceptions
     trump facts

Where love is honest enough to yield
     a renewed commitment

Canards were shared that day
Pretend this story is solid true gold
Unfounded tales spun to defend

Falling leaves confused
With a darting hummingbird,
Time to change my clocks

Brown and withered
Who could foresee
How tenuous was the
Hold on earth

Embedded deep
Surrounded by soft
loam, lightly tethered
There was slight resistance

Efforts to replace
Prove futile
Remnants of what
Once appeared to thrive

Lie gathered among
Scraps decaying
In the morning sunlight

I was seduced
in Barnes & Noble,
lured to the  poetry section
next to coffee and pastries

I touched her Blue Iris,
fondled her Red Bird
and recounted why
she wakes to watch
the early sunrise

She looked better than I remembered
in a brown jacket
with a striking
emblem of a bear
on the front
She took me to her tent
near Truro
and told me of turtles, toads,
hermit *****,
and her fear
of ridding her garden
of a small harmless snake

I spill my passion
on the beach’s sand — our bed for now

Under her cover
she shares phrases,
moles, verbs,
and curves
of sweet new perceptions

We are intimate beyond belief
through her verbal kisses
which bring sweat to my palms

I’m high, hallucinating
on Mary
my drug of choice

I’m having an affair
with Mary Oliver

Two years ago
her fingers
stained red beneath her nails
pillowed and splattered
layers of anger on canvas

paints and brushes littered her bedroom
where canvas stretched on frames
and love was lost under the mattress

collectors purchased her works
hoping to alarm viewers
like a siren alerts distracted drivers

at tonight's showing
she walks with a smile
as broad as a tourist
in a Japanese Garden

brilliant white works
cover each easel matching
her snowy cotton dress

In a back room  red's,
hidden under blue, green
and yellow cans and canvas,
fade daily.

Morning’s first scent
bathes an arousing room 

with musty fragrance
of spoiled passion.


Clothing forms little
mountains of disarray
on faded carpet.
Burned out cigarette butts
snake gray in the ashtray 

while tepid water
with a hint of scotch
wiggles in the glasses
on the end table. 

Bodies stir with memories
of unwelcomed
interruptions. Unspent fluids
still surge in naked *****. 


Her eyes feast on stubble
sharp enough to chafe her neck.
Memories of the previous evening’s
unfulfilled promise incite tightening
between her legs. She smiles,
snuggles into the crook
of his summer-tanned arm.
No phone calls, or knocks on the door
will deter her passion this morning.

Step by step,
I walk mindlessly
across the patchy lawn
muddy here
barren there
unkept, unattended.
Pleading blades of grass
with drops of hope reflect
morning’s sunlight.
They become my teachers
as they reach out
to grow.
Fresh spring spouts
extol me
to find a place
where barefoot soles
gather joy
with each flex of toe
into the ground.

Swoosh, wings glide
across my quiet spot
water babbles near
I imagine
wise owls
limp along willow’s gray limbs
bask among first streaks of
sunlight,
collect my vibes
gather my pains
my joys
together for me
send them
to me revamped,
wrapped with hope