Sara L Russell, 19/12/14 00:58am*


White gulls fly against darkness of winter trees
swirling in a reeling easterly;
bare branches stand in earthbound traceries
behind the birds that dance weightless and free.


There is a rhythm in this circling flight.
a lazy, slightly tipsy minuet;
a majesty in gliding wings of white,
a sign that better times are coming yet.


The dew has barely faded on the green,
two fountains bend before the icy breeze,
as seagulls, with a grace I've rarely seen
swirl heavenward, like flights of fantasies.

The universe at its right angle
changes you into
day. Yet again, next year
you will look the same—  

unpunctuated

line of zodiac
in easterly motion
makes its highest path to
you in winter.

Sunlight pours down to earth from every angle.
You emerge with your mouth.

The universe’s only apparent movement.

Lily marked the gravestone. A white streak across grey cobble, the crumbling visage of a turning sky reflected in the puddle beside her. New dusk brimmed grey gold, a heady dust galloped with the rising easterly winds, a white streak across grey skies. Lily marked the edge of her notebook, nine-past-ten, the end of second period, a break in consciousness, then a tang of blood from her swollen gums. Lenin rose above the rooftops, a hand brushed her forehead as the paramedics left, a black bag.

The answer was heat death, compartmentalised energy, like fireworks falling into darkness. Burning rice, spilt coffee, Ain’s smile. Nights on counter, pad paper, day old rain. Lily fell into a nightmare, smooth black, a single light dissipating as the universe died. She spat blood, missed the bus and collapsed on the walk to school.

It was the anniversary. Setting sun, plumes of white, the exit sigh of a wasted day. Lily woke hours later. She returned to an empty home, suffocated in a dream and rose four hours too early for school. Climbing the roof, she watched the sun rise, grey and formless.

There was ash in the hallway to class, the remnants of the incense from yesterday’s memorial, pencil shavings from the forest, fingers blurring out of definition like the trees around her, the soft empty breath of loose soil. Ain came to the store on a night like this, wind gathered silent around her frame. They found themselves atop a bus shelter, lights rising from a sea of nothingness.

Eight-forty-five, the chalk felt heavy in Lily’s hand, white dash across infinity, city blackout. Everyone went to see the dam, cracked pavement, Ain dripping blood, Lily wreathed in ravens. Below the river, forest spirits wove among power lines, bird bones cracked beneath the soles of children, motes rose. Lily lost sight of Ain, the dam broke and children cheered.

Time passed. Ceaseless time.

Lily drifted through petroleum smoke, dashi, the burning husks of gods. She watched the river ryū sweep through her street, turbid with the broken heads of graves, mad with phantoms. She visited memories yet to form, nurseries of dust, cosmic return of the infinite perceiving itself. She cried, remembering everything, the smell Ain’s wet hair, ricochet of a glass bottle, Lenin’s dirt-smeared skin, the birth and death of the universe; mother unable to afford pad paper, sakura bursting the sky pink, couples riding past on too expensive bikes, father drunk on sake. Ribbons of light danced around Lily, a playful susurration, feeding her more and more memories.

Isn’t it beautiful? Existence burning through itself? A departure with no ending, no beginning, no becoming? Haven’t you lived a full life? Won’t you live it again?

Lily screamed. Split dam flooded the empty grave. The same smell of soy, dust and sweat every day. Lack birthed in the space between, like teeth, lacuna bleeding. Nightmares and old memories pouring out like a knife. Ryū stiffened, red streak across the sky, tail burying into the earth. Rice steam filled the air, a passing train carried Ain and Lily into the city, crowds of smoke, her crescent eyes reflected in a storefront, the eyes her mother loved. April awakening of the forest gods, cool spring rustled the hair around her neck, a humid breath descended from the mountain to the lake. Warm rain fell in sheets, city smudged out of focus, bokeh lights departing, Ain’s wet skin—

The city retracted; a whimper escaped her mouth; her fingers passed through power lines, wood smoke, pavement; seasons collapsed, superimposed like holograms, snow and humus; gyoza steamed, air sirens blared beneath the shadow of foreign planes; kodama rose as ancient trees reclaimed the land; volcanic blasts shook the ocean, AI sped to singularity; reality vanished like light falling off a mirror and Lily ceased to feel.

Space is illusory.

Lily.

It travels ceaselessly through itself.

Lily, stop.

And we don’t exist.

Lily grinned, rising from the reeds, a cattail in each hand. She sped towards a screaming Ain, who tripped on a willow root, and began bopping relentlessly.

“Lily!” Ain cried, squirming on the ground. “Lily, stop!”

Lily grinned, rising from the reeds, a cattail in each hand. She sped towards a screaming Ain, who tripped on a willow root, and began bopping relentlessly.

“Lily!” Ain cried, squirming on the ground. “Lily, stop!”

Lily grinned, rising from the reeds, a cattail in each hand. She sped towards a screaming Ain, who tripped on a willow root, and began bopping relentlessly.

“Lily!” Ain cried, grabbing Lily’s wrists. “Haven’t we done this enough?”

Golden sand tickling your toes
Pebbles gleaming, glistening, slushing
When the tide comes  back  to shore.
Sand dunes hiding wildlife,
Multitudes of migratory birds,
Safely returning every year to
This beautiful, marshy paradise.
Skies so orange, pink and red,
An artists palette of natural art
Greet you at sunrise and sunset.
*****, kippers, cod and plaice
Shrimps, cockles and whelks,
Mushy, minty peas and chips,
The show at the end of the pier.
The lifeboats and their hardy crew
Risking their lives to save others,
When visitors run into trouble
At the mercy of the cold North Sea.
Crumbling coastlines, cliff walks
And nature reserves full of the
Scent of wild garlic and herbs,
Norfolk lavender. Steam engines,
Fishing boats, river boats,
Paddling boats and cycles
Take you on journeys
Around the Broads or
Past the famous Castles.
Tigers and leopards peer
Through the bars of their
Zoo homes by the sea.
Easterly winds that bite your
Fingers as they whistle and
Howl through the City.
Guest houses closed for
The winter as you stroll
The lonely promenades
Breathing in the air.
Queen Bodicea,  Normans,
Vikings and Romans all
Marched through this
Historical  landscape
And yet we remain
Stalwart and strong
Proud of our heritage,
Our roots,  our birthplace
There's only one place
Better than Norfolk,
And that's the
Beautiful Ozarks.

I worshiped her as much as ideas and dreams were worshiped. Only sometimes when I met her at the passion podium wearing my true self, Harlequin with a thousand names, a shadow of my lip is lowered down her pearly neck. She sighed passionately watching my coal eyes as my breath of fresh forest moss and violets stroked her. My ideal desires turned into worship of the forest elves towards slender birch trunks. As easterly wind with words I bent the branches of her smile, touched her imagination with pictures of needs and trembled the leaves of her youth with seductive rumble. She had no chance. I chose her as a single flower, she was not mine and therefore was nobody's. Hypnotized by my silence she awaited for black hole of fate to drew her in and convert her into the shining star of my worship. She will become mine even if I kidnapped her and imprisoned as my Harem slave, I promised myself the first time her shadow fell on my path. At that point she was wolf's hunger at the buffet, she was rainstorm in the desert summer, electronic sight for the blind. She was a mountain of Christmas gifts packaged in a slight *** appeal. I thought it will last forever, that love, and hanging her picture among the portraits of forgotten lovers I watched her as last after many. With remote thought I left a little room on the magnificent wall of romantic freedom knowing that Harlequin's love is fleeting as smile on his face, transient as grimace on his mask and changeable as a form of drawn tears. Love of Harlequin is fantasy fiction story in which one woman does not stay for long.

Everybody claps out of synch
in the midnight elegance of “Wine Ohs”

but the bass player hums
at the twitch of the sunken keys
that man who leans back crying a New York cry
and sweet daddy saxophone wailing a New York wail

and they all pale and bow with respect
to the young drummer with bright eyes that nobody knows
and nobody knows where he came from or how old

Who’s soul I remember meeting from Easterly winds
only to find himself on stage with strangers
in a plane of rhythm and ruthless time
in a freedom jazz dance

Honeysuckle carrier churning the spring-                                              
river caladium
Easterly shear delight beyond Dresden blue visage
Windy dream mermaid sea , Brown Pelican motion
Harper Chickadees stirring Pineapple sage-
banks of thought
Tempered , smitten , physical piedmont devotion
Pisciform schooners roaming wits damask ocean

Unchained day beneath dumpling clouds in a baby boy broth
I tumble from the snake's mouth into the belly of the bullfrog
kicking across the river in fits and starts of sloshing and falling
great mirror arms reach imploring
asking the sky to see their brilliance
as steel-grey bracelets encircle one wrist and
then another
and skyward we turn
and vomited unceremoniously from the bullfrog's mouth
I slog easterly through the setting concrete of the new-fettered day
kicking across the avenues in fits and starts of staring and falling
shiny electronic arms reach imploring and
ask the stars to hear the cries
as invisible chokers encircle one's throat and
then nothing
and skyward we turn
and jostled and sweating as fresh popcorn into the gluttonous hall
I ride the current past the kiosks and shuttered kitchens of boutique cafes
kicking down the rapids in fits and starts of surfacing and falling
a majestic and world-weary arm reaches defiantly and
shakes a fist forever at one moment and
then knows
and northward we turn
and
     the girl shared my Luna bar
and
     the phones were passed around
and
     the woman had no shoes
and
     the conductor took no tickets
and
     the women shared their seat
and
     the man gave her cab fare
and
     the woman went home with no purse, no keys, no shoes
and
     the girl went back to Buffalo
and
     still we turn
and
     still we turn
and
our shackled arms raised against the sword reaches
                                                                                             necessarily and
blocks the blow as if we were one arm and
then holds
and
     still we turn

a spring morning is the ripening fruit of summer
easterly winds blow from the seashore
carried with song
the birds await
the exhale of summer

Mine pet;

When coming to America, I shalt showeth thee
All fifty states, of the United States
Mine queen....

Alabama; Down south, the place of the little river canyon national reserve, at the top of lookout mountain, where bird's canst be heard.
Alaska; A place far out west, a wild domain, a place untamed, where thou canst let out thy wildness.
Arizona; a place of ourn beloved poet ( soul survivor) a native American land, where cacti run the land's, and dirt is bright red.
Arkansas; To hot spring's national park, where beauty canst be seen in the dark, and soaked in through the warm bubbled water.
California; A place redwood tree's and Sequoia's, a land for the strange, and weird thing's, where all cometh together.
Colorado; where mine oldest brother liveth, where the crystalline water as a drink it giveth, and the *****'s peak highly amour'.
Connecticut; A place of Eastern sandshores, where we canst walketh in ourn galore, holding hand's, I'll sayeth me more!!!
Delaware; Delmara peninsula where we canst seeith awe-shocking elegance, where we canst travel in all remembrance.
Florida; thither mine middle brother's terra firma, a place of alligator's, swamp's, ocean waves, surfer's and hot sun drop's.
Georgia; The place where slave's fought hard, Atlanta city, a big place of life, fast and slow.where rich men go to liveth large.
Hawaii; Tropical island like thy own, not connected to the mainland though, swaying tree's like thy own, heavenly splendor.
Idaho; Where we canst get the best potatoes, I'll make them mashed, with gravy, chicken and tomatoes, I'll feed thee good.
Illinois; Where the huge city of Chicago sit's, large skyscraper's, and city bliss. Where the water sparkles the view.
Indiana; Marengo Cave National Landmark, where we canst sneak inside the cave's, then to Indianapolis, to wander through the shade.
Iowa; To Pikes Peak state park, where the Mississippi and Wisconsin river's meet to start, a beautiful picture indeed.
Kansas; Off to Rock City, an odd place where two-hundred boulders rest, then to Kansas Cosmosphere and Space Center to explore a place of knowledge, learning of the new, and happiness.
Kentucky; To Mammoth Cave National Park, in strangeness we shalt walk the dark, with lantern's to carry ourn shadow's.
Louisiana; Also the well known area of New orlean's, where jazz music doesn't stop and the people art it's scene. Where people overcometh!!!!
Maine; To get some of the best seafood around, the eastern wind shalt bloweth us around, as love thou shouldst bring a coat dear.
Maryland; Where Edgar Allen poe was born, where the Raven sung and mourned, though the sunshine shines it's people.
Massachusetts; The land of Many Irishmen and fishermen, settling thee down in Boston, where the accent of the easterly go loudly.
Michigan; The state just above me, they haveth natural lake's and the chill is breezed, the soul's art kind, and people dream, their alive.
Minnesota; where the snow piles to thy ride, the whitened picture is Christmas to thy eye's, as thou wilt need to dress warm.
Mississippi; Deep down south, where the language changes, word's art more southern and slang it clingeth, onto thy lip's.
Missouri; First to the St. Louis arch, it bend's to the sky and is six hundred and twenty five feet from thy heart, as high we shalt view.
Montana; Western freedom, wherein nature is painted, horses roam, thing's aren't tainted, guileless and natural.
Nebraska; Betwixt the corn stalks and field's, farmer's work hard and people art real, as hard work like thy country is known.
Nevada; To Las Vegas the desert Oasis, light's art big, as room's art spacious, different is here with a million face's, gambler's taketh their chances.
New Hampshire; Near Lake Winnipesaukee, a sensible area where being's doeth their best, eastward again, bringeth hot dress.
New Jersey; To Atlantic City on the boardwalk, a place of tales and beach defined walk, sunshined day's where lingo talk's, and the traveling shalt be sweet.
New Mexico; Dusty native land, the dirt is grained, the pinnacles of silence is maintained, by God's still voice.
New York; Aka- The big apple, where immigrant's once cameth through, immigrant's as me thou and you. Meaning were all the same.
North Carolina; Blue Ridge *****'s peak the entry, ancient places here art serene, tranquil relaxing is here mine queen!!!
North Dakota; farther again out west, talk to the Indian's to get the best, they'll giveth thee information to inform the rest.
Ohio; Mine state, the heart of the country, I mean by it's shape, were surrounded by all, we sit on a lake, we hath cornfield's, barn's, southern Hill's, northern star's, kind folk's and fancy cars, mixed with great stores for shopping, as I'll buyeth thee as much as thy heart canst be enlarged.
Oklahoma; Indigenous territory, creatures art relaxed, no need for no hurry.
Oregon; Where tree's groweth big, rainfall is the normal, and wild children art the kid's, beautiful scenery is blossoming mist.
Pennsylvania; On the eastern edge of the Appalachian Top's, green none make believe, the quietness is beauty, a part of God!!!

Mine queen
Mine easterly wind
That saveth me.

Mine beautiful
Darling of lives
Long lived.

Tis again O'
Tis again, we
Shalt touch ourn
Tissue to intertwine
The mind's of two archaic
Soul's; mine lady, mine home.

Obsidian shalt I wrap around
Thine toes, Olivine crystal to
Grace thy structured shoulder's;
Yellow Spinel as like Ray's of ten-
Thousand star's glittering thy ear's.

Lass, lady of the Orient; wipe away
Thine tear's, for eternal year's art ourn
Own to capture from nonending cloud-walking.
Yea, verily, the Azure's art singing as we shalt chant
"Bala roush, anakar crean monostipi", ourn amare to be uplifting.
Godliness and Impartial giving, life is love, and heaven-sending.

My calendar isn't on paper
it doesn't hang on a wall
neglected pages to be turned
two months behind.

It isn't on my computer
in the cloud
synced to all my technological tortures
physically formed as notifications
short chimes to coax time forward.

My calendar is plastic
it sits on the toothpaste coated
counter in my bathroom
and I tell the day by which
of the seven perfectly segmented
little boxes are open and closed.

S, M, T open
it must be W
Wednesday
the red capsule and three white tablets remain
it is still morning
i trust my calendar
the light outside
or the absence thereof
can be a trick of my mind
day and night are not so
clean cut as the purple pill organizer
which contains my madness for me.

When things seem clearer
I approach my calendar
knowing beforehand which
cube on the string I must open
and retrieve these drugs
that keep my feet planted firmly
on the rich earth.

When I know the day
I rue these pills.

Why do I need them when
each day flows effortlessly into the next
like iridescent pearls strung along
into an unending sequence
of beads on a string
each one singularly unique
imbued with the essence of
the divine mollusk who incubated
this precious day?

When I can turn the pages
of the socially acceptable
calendar on the wall
I am a perfect imposter of
what is considered the norm
and I can look at days as
units in months
or years.

I stop living inside a partially
opened weekly pill organizer
and I am convinced
that I've taken up residence
outside of that gravitational
pull of the underworld
who buries me six feet under
to suffocate by the weight
of the soil pressing in.

My castle
my palace
is seated atop
a mountain carved into
the rugged stone
enveloped in a downy blanket
of cloud.

I'm miles from madness
light years from the person
who doesn't recognize her
face in the mirror
distorted
melting.

It is a seemingly endless summer
the easterly sun's warmth on my face
harking morning's glorious arrival
and hazy lilac hues dancing
an unparalleled pas de deux
with the sun's last pink rays
peeking over the western horizon.

My mornings are not
one red capsule
one white tablet.

It is a morning flight
free amongst the last stars
clinging to the pastel blue
of night's retreat.

Night is no longer
two white tablets
one yellow
it is sitting on my
mountaintop and watching
the god of the sky
falling in slow motion
imperceptibly lowering
into the horizon.

And the cycle repeats itself
in a euphoric loop
of twenty-four hours of heart-breaking beauty.

But the cycle is not in fact endless
just as day turns unfailingly to night
my cicada days
turn to static
and the churning black clouds
take hostage my paramour
the sun
and lost in the abyss of un-delineated time
I run to my mistress.

The weekly purple calendar.

My first, my only, my true
What I am missing in myself
Is what I see in you
Our last days were not kind
Many words were lashed in haste
False I was in mind
Yearning for what I left behind
I lay now on this barren field
Gazing upon the stars of discontent
Deepening blackness will not yield
The easterly wind still carries your scent

I guess I've lost my voice to
The wind.
Though easterly blusters
Kept my mama
In shambles
With tumble weeds,
The northern winds will
Carry my voice
To the place where
Dawn
Breaks on ice caps and
Buries fears beneath
The ages of sameness.

Your perfect love is a sunrise
to my cool and easterly heart.
The light you bring seeks for me
after many nights chasing the moon.

With dawn, I lose sight
of what the orb ever meant to me,
as you drown its scant light
and silence the stars.

It's cold, always was.
You're burning, for me.

The vibrance night stole,
you restore and replenish
with every slow tick of the axis.
Color floods fields and valleys
I'd wandered deep in darkness;
dew steams to scents of summer
as I watch treaded grasses spring to life.

It's here I sit.
Lost on tangled paths
I was sure were meant to lead me,
I forged another, alone,
and built a home.

You shine in through its windows,
seep in past my walls, and,
as I watch and wait for you,
you quietly reach for more of me.

a thin rusting frame
is held up against broken glass,
frosted over by years of
sea salt

thick to breathe as snow,
South-easterly tangles my hair,
glosses my cheeks a cold rose

I cannot see myself
anywhere

There's a rattling on the window frames
a clattering at the door,
what more can the wind do,
what more can it say?
but
call me names on
a blustery day.

of the eroding stone
         by the ephemeral stream;
of the reed tottering in
                           the placid lake;

'tis the darkest of nights
moonless, hope-less;
but, the fragrance of jasmine
is creeping up the air,

kissing
the feisty cheeks of vermilion
emerging yonder easterly.

A tear splash and a ripple
dying in waves of joy.

I rode my bike, fat, bloated 4-inch
Tires un-skating across
Frosted ground.

A degree below
(You know what)
Not ice, or icy,
Exactly, but...
As if some mythical
Dude named...John?
Jorje? (****-hay)
Ok, Jack, then - breathed
Almost-frozen breadth
Over much of Downtown
Indianapolis.

The sun was diffuse, low
Easterly, barely a lighted
Presence, as I pedaled through
The little pathway that perimeters the
Zoo, the muffled cries of
The furry and wrinkly-
Skinned high above
And safely ensconced
Past huge limestone walls.

Shutter-flash
Dapples of light struck my
Eyes as I passed leaves who
Stubbornly refused to relinquish
Their stemmed hold onto
Mother and Father tree.

Past the little zooey pathway,
The big bridge leading to the
Downtown canal, ordinarily
Crowded, but only I crowded
This time and place and space.

Where the sun wanted to shine,
But was stubbornly blocked by
Such insubstantial things as
Bridge abutments and pillars;
Shadows outlined the muted
Rays of a bleak post-Christmas
Sun, contrasting
Outlining them in a
Frosty embrace.
All around that little ******
Of ground, the light of day
Melted and softened Jack's
Iron-like grip. But not
That little piece of ground.
Nope.

I stopped the bike and looked
At the squarish rectangle of
Frost that stubbornly refused to
Give up its hold from the
Relentless, though much less
Powerful sun.

The clockwork
Universe ticks and tocks,
And moves and shakes, and
This morning, snug in my many
Layers, I got to ride my bike
On top of a battle
I'd never witnessed before
Today.

I slept like a log, inspite of the pains from my blistered feet. Harry woke me at six thirty. "Time for breakfast, better jump to it or i'll tickle your feet."  The thought of that was enough to set me in motion. After breakfast we assembled for role call beside the waiting coaches. Then we boarded, and left the camp heading for the airfield. Every one was expecting to fly from RAF Lyneham, we had heard that we would be flying in the new Dehavilland Comet, the first passenger jet. It was not to to be. The comet had crashed into the sea, there were no survivors!
Instead of that, we were driven to a remote airfield in Wiltshire, I believe it was called Cliff Pypard,  there we boarded an ageing hastings transport and set off into the wide blue yonder heading on a more southerly bearing than one would expect for a flight to Germany.
I tried to keep an eye on our progress by following coastlines, it was difficult, clouds obscured much of the coast line. I had the definite feeling that we were travelling in a South Easterly direction, and I asked one of the aircrew about it. "Don't worry, I expect we'll take a turn to the north soon." A little later, I suddenly realized that we were flying over the Med- Germany via the Med, never in this world!!
We ate chicken wings lettuce and bread for lunch, still flying at a steady one hundred and eighty miles an hour at mid day, below us dessert! We were all confused. Where on earth were we going?
Our first stop was at a place called Idris, it was an airstrip in the Libyan desert. There was nothing there only tents, and a place to refuel. I was a squalid stinking dump, and that was all. We left early the following morning after a laughable breakfast that no one ate. Our ext stop was a similar one but even more so, It was a place alled Habanya, I think, I went to use one of the two toilet's and discovered that the horrible brown stains in the toilets were actually enormous heaving masses of huge cockroaches, I went out into the desert insted. when I got back to our tent I was told off. "this place is crawling with snakes, don't stray about!" we didn't need telling twice! The tents were just as bad, infested with huge spiders, no one slept. We were glad to leave it.

Her voice was poetic, such a bard may be
From my half drunk haze, I wandered
Looking up, she wasn't much a girl

She was tugging at sleeves, begging a scrap
A tale she spoke, of tears and madness
Bending any ear, that a bit might try

Throughout the night I puzzled, pieces
Of stricken towns, all easterly
Her father sickened, a cousin liken

The story beg curious, draining my enibe
Time wandered, much as patrons do
The little girl was found, by my side

Tossing her gold, she began
But to my sober eyes, she cringed
For her story, more than passing;

(She began)

Of her life, when cornered
I wanted it in whole, not beggary
Heir to dirt, spoken in small words

It was true, witnessed event
Beyond her small mind, driven slightly mad
The story twisted, tangents borne by emotions

It crept through the village, she lived
Affecting old and young, alike
A plague of the mind, before the body

Those slim recovered, as she was one
Say nightmarish creature, devoured the sea
Looming and tentacled, shelled crowned but flesh

Pillaged her mind, linking to others
Voice minds so loud, drowning her screams
Others clawing, burning their ears; carving flesh

Murderous intentions, toward husbands and wives
Children flailing, glimpsing lives to come
Wailing, the chaotic violence of the flesh

Slowly at first, the story was drawn
In her little voice, lost its pan
Confession came, through her tears

Sins not yet committed, a life hers to be
Memories of pain, unbroken fate
Suffrage of life, before ones age

I sipped rough mead, ordered food for her tale
Half listening to story, feeling the looming
A creature seeing us, omniscient from her eyes

She went on for hours, spent
Others draped, across table and chair
Unconscious from sleep, or dark in drink

On and on, the story unfolded
This shadowy entity, closer for sure
It's name unspoken, but knowing me here

The key (she said), it needed a door
It said, spokeless to her mind
And the tale, must be told

Pen, Paper, and a cup of coffee,
Head throbbing, and a hand scribbling furiously,
Just as the flickering flame of the kerosene lamp
danced away with the easterly breeze.

Crumpled heap and an acid ball;
Glibs and thoughts meleed in my head
Pouring out everything my pen can scream,
All to contain another avalanche
of disjointed verses and noxious madness.

“Ding” goes the clock,
Eyes straining and my head’s an empty sphere,
The portable radio’s playing, and my pen’s  swirling to the beat,
The bed’s just as tempting,
But I can’t bring myself to sleep.

In a clearing two eyes meet and Spring is born,
sparks of joy rise to flame and settle on rosen lips.

Unspoken words adjoin deep into hearts,
whose daylight bring everlasting hope.

Clouds part, rain gives way to sun, night to day,
Spring to Summer.

Laughter now sings from sunny appellations,
whose tiny voices sooth and console.

Hearts grow, spirits sing,
laughter and running feet tarry, then pass by.

Flowers that were once crisp and sharp,
now dry and crumble in the days heat left.

Night pulls its shade,
blinded eyes stumble and fall, looking for that which sleeps.

Unable to behold the quiescent voice within,
upheaval of the bulwark surely comes.

Altruism's nourishment grows scarce,
as Summers door closes.

The Fall winds blow.

Times were better when, the sun was easterly high,
eyes beheld precious states, and life’s melody was sweet.

Time, now the thief paints with a different brush.

The air grows cold now.

Trees that once stood
majestically green now change to cloaks of amber gold.

Soft whispers dull the once loud chimes of time,
bringing the stillness of age.

The cloaks of amber gold fall and wither,
beginning the journey’s end.

Laughter no longer echoes in the clearing, as
the cold winds of winter proclaim their arrival.

The footprints of joyful days lie frozen in time,
to be seen, but touched never again.

The cold snows of winter descend,
to cover the melodies of adoration past.

The satin cloth of passions sweet,
etched deep in stone now crack.

A cabin stands on a hill.

A shell, A keeper of time, and visions past.

The smoke of a fire no longer flies
from its pipe tall and black.

Starvation ceased the flame, remorseless as one blowing out a candle.

pointing easterly,
azure skies of course
   this afternoon.
washlines drenched in
  high-sun,
precise contraptions
    deter spread of
anomalies seen daily.

  you tell me
hare's the fool
  you had once in your
 fledgling hands and died.
hare's foot
   is luck more than
imaginary.
  when no one is looking but
always i, keening in the total
    image -- it cannot
be you, impossible
   under ineffable skies
and twilight-erased  mud;

moments are   disavowal.
   you    like   the sound
so withdrawn   from  contestation,
  so easily your accurate self
liking   the   captured  dissonance.

you know   a fine day when
   it happens,
slow ****** of the vertical,
   highest  time to quit, bid for
a sequestered   place   free
      and absolute in variables: x is the lie.
all the intimate
    dark   you   pulse  with   the life
of   beautiful  horses

          gaining lightsome distance,
an approbative signal of technicolor
    painting   your   face  with   all
       things basking.
                     truant.

an easterly wind
blows down into the basin
heat of compression
warming up the desert floor
stirring up the night's passion

After Rain

The audacious sun finally showed up, and green was
the winter landscape, I also saw the sun set just behind
the carob tree, where the almond tree first blossom,
asleep under a carpet of wild flowers and snoozed till dawn.
Over the easterly range, which is the first defence against
Spanish Marauders and the rain on its plane, the clouds
were dark blue, perhaps more rain tomorrow?
In fading light, a musical note danced down the phone line,
the first flirt of spring? And should it rain tomorrow I will
not be downhearted, this day will keep me warm for
weeks to come.

Coppering Pine needle blankets
Checkerboard blue , gray green mosaics
The draw of afternoon August Sun
The burgeoning pressure of imminent easterly storm
A faint relief of watery mist and collective
woodland sigh
Diamond wave , teeming rain filled carpets 'neath
cloudy confusion held in life giving evergreen myrrh* ....

Once a month
You are mine.
The moon is full
Translucent and majestic,
As you.
The Sun lends me a helping hand
The high tides are high
The low tides are low
I reel you in like
An expert fisherman in the
Middle of the ocean.

Once a Month
You are mine
As the wolves howl in the background  
To awaken you
The sky is pitch black
With only the light of
The moon illuminating the
Path to our tryst.

Once a Month
You are mine
I whisper your name and the
Easterly winds batter
Your soft tender ears
with my cries.

The rest of the days
You’re gone.

the breezing easterly whips up the white horses
blue depth of sky deep fathoms the sea
and this wretched creature attempts to sing
out the poets depths of silence, where the skies meet the white horses
racing to the shore across the bay.