The limbs of weeping willows,
Hang over the redbud trees.
Pink flowers on the redbuds,
Are ones that are real beauties.

As gray clouds are divided,
The  sunlight, makes its way through;
The leaves then lean toward it,
As nature intends them to.

As wind whips limbs and branches,
Redbud petals whirl in air,
The ground will have  a carpet,
Of pink near the village square.

what's left to say
now that you've gone away
when the sky is cold and grey
and I'm lost without you

we met in the fall
among hues of orange and red
and when your eyes met mine
the sun shined on my heart for the first time

fall turned to winter
and the days flew by
with the swiftness of the migrating flocks
etched across the sky

winter turned to spring
oh what beauty it did bring,
as we walked
underneath the budding trees

spring turned to summer
but your feelings changed
as the seasons do
and it was time to say goodbye

to you.

Race toward the mountains,
Peddle through redbud alley,
Chase the blood red sky.

Redbirds, redbirds,
Long and long ago,
What a honey-call you had
In hills I used to know;

Redbud, buckberry,
Wild plum-tree
And proud river sweeping
Southward to the sea,

Brown and gold in the sun
Sparkling far below,
Trailing stately round her bluffs
Where the poplars grow —

Redbirds, redbirds,
Are you singing still
As you sang one May day
On Saxton’s Hill?

April is their month.
They've sat,
Patient,
Throughout the winter,
Those sturdy oval buds,
Sometimes cased in ice,
They don't seem
To mind.
Are they awaiting,
Tax time?
These jewels
Keep company with
Their pretty pink
Cousins,
The Redbud.
Why does the dogwood
Ask
For our attention
So?
Perhaps because it
Blooms so early,
When
There is so little else
To see.
Perhaps it is the legend that,
From the poor dogwood,
Came the wood,
From which was fashioned,
The true cross.
More likely it's just,
The timeless beauty,
Born-in beauty,
From long ago,
Needing no
Adornment,
And not a bit
Of pruning.
Touch it with a knife,
You'll invite disease.
Let it grow ***** nilly,
It will give you,
Perfect beauty,
On its own.

Wild,
It sits beneath
The forest cover,
Like a craggy,
Wasted twig,
Dwarfed,
By its bigger cousins.
And then,
Before any others,
That slim and subtle
Beauty
First appears,
As an
Exquisite miniature,
Creamy yellow flowers,
That open,
To bleach themselves white,
And show the
Blood red crosses
At their center.

They are
Gems,
That change,
Day by day,
So leave your camera
Home.
You cannot catch
Their beauty.
Instead,
Imprint the view
Upon your mind.
They'll be back
Next year,
More beautiful
Than ever.

Iamb, iamb, iamb, I plod along
in verse predicting I could write a song.
To call upon the muse of higher power
pour some wine, kick off your shoes and glower.

While putting best foot forward, don't forget:
cliches are lines that surely **** your wit.
Reality, you say, bears greener grass?
Abstraction always steps across as crass.

It's true you could walk on like this for days.
Your meter's tight, it rarely ever strays.
But what of clever feet and sounds succinct?
If images are dull, your verse will stink,

As blossoms dance upon the redbud tree
and oceans fill your squid with ink of glee,
remember what your mama always said:
mixed metaphors fill readership with dread!

Say: sonics surely sock a swelling swale,
Entwined, the twisted tongues tell not your tale.
Less is always more, the teachers say.
If tricks you train, then please just walk away!

I never knew how hard it really was
to write a poem that might parade a buzz.
I thank you moderators and big brass
for sticking yours so fully up my ***!

I

She’s sleepwalking again,
my nine-year-old daughter,
who shares the bedroom
with her sister down the hall.
She’s kicked off the covers
and wandered downstairs,
somnambulant, her bare feet
moving as though in a dream
across the kitchen’s linoleum
floor to the back of the house.
The porch door smacks shut—
a gunshot—and she is gone.

For a time, I watch her from
the open bedroom window.
Her diaphanous nightgown
absorbs August moonlight.
She steps slowly, a pale flame
floating across the back field,
the wiregrass up to her knees,
avoiding a copse of redbuds,
skirting shrubs and stones.

When her small figure succumbs
to shadow at the edge of the trees,
I put on my bathrobe and follow.

II

At first, she is lost to me.
I break into a delirious run,
scratched on my cheek
by a redbud branch.
Reaching the tree line,
I see her standing still,
shoulders stooped,
a luminous cattail
bending down.

She hovers above a sleeping fawn,
the warm bundle curled at her feet.
I contemplate the white spots
scattered on fur, thinking, velvet stars.

But when I place a hand
on my daughter’s shoulder
I see blood flowing fresh
from the doe’s abdomen;
red entrails slipping out,
pooling on pine needles.
Stepping closer, I remember a moment
earlier that evening: a jar of preserves
spilled carelessly on the kitchen’s stone counter,
the soft dishtowel soaking scarlet in my hand.

At the edge of the creek, a second doe
watches us with opaque, joyless eyes.
My daughter puts her finger to her lips;
the doe tenses, blinks, and bolts away.

I lift my daughter and carry her carefully
home, her head buried in my shoulder,
blades of grass clinging to my bare feet.

III

My daughters' room:
holding her in weak arms, poised
to lay her on top bedcovers,
I notice her sister’s empty bed,
neatly made, the blankets smooth
and tight across the mattress.

An anemic moth bangs
against the window pane.

The light flicks on and suddenly
I am awake, remembering all of it:
the dry diagnosis, the slow whir
of hospital machines, the smell
of old flowers, and somewhere
in my daughter’s stomach,
the cruel mathematics
of cells metastasizing.

My wife stands in the doorway,
her hand on the light switch.
My arms are empty. I gaze
down and see our daughter
nestled under covers,
breathing softly, asleep.

I see the pale white skin of my clean bare feet.

You’re sleepwalking again, my wife says.
She touches my unsullied cheek, hooks her
fingers through mine, and shuffles me down
the hall to bed. Head sinking into the pillow,
I gaze out the open bedroom window and weep.

The moonless sky cradles its constellations:
bright grains of salt scattered on soapstone;
my hand trembles, unable to wipe them away.

The redbud tree is blossoming
                as is my brand new love
        The flowers that covet its being
     like cupids arrows shot from above
  My heart is whole and has yet to break
       for i love my love like i love my fate
          To be a lover and to be a friend
its what makes me loyal to the very end

I hear the wind
whipping through the freshly-leafed elm
its long sonorous undulating chord
is as light as sunbeams
as alive as the spring saps
rushing wildly up the redbud and pear
eager to burst out of their limbs
into green glory.

My misgivings hide among the shadows,
In the tangle of long grass along the hedgerow
Between your wide open fields and my cultivated lawn.

Unspoken truths crowd out the spring bulbs,
Now snarled with weeds and thorned with blackberry,
The cobbled pathway which once linked my hope with your promise.

Will you meet me at the gate by the old sycamore tree?
If yes, then bring your dreams, untethered, and the dappled autumn sunshine,
I will bring my careful notions and the soft spring rain.

Prim roses and wild lilac; a velvet ash and sweet chestnuts,
Your gypsy summer, my redbud winter,
Our season, one garden.

The House on the Hill
The state of Oklahoma is known for its frigid winters and December 1968 is no exception.
I anticipate seeing the old farmhouse again. Memories of a little boy six years of age in the same mind of a young man of 23 lures me back, even though the house is no longer occupied by my grandparents. Those memories have affected me. The love, hard work, and family ties in the house effectively shaped my mind on what matters in life.
As I drive up the winding dirt road, I can see the house in the distance. It looks lonely and cold. The windshield wipers swoosh away the windblown snow. The house looks like a portrait in my windshield. The memories rush in.
I get out of my car and step backward as I wipe the melting snowflakes from my eyes. I’m overdue for this, I thought as I approach the house.
The steps are strong but graying with the traces of times impressions on every board. The top of the deck and railings which wrap around the entire front porch holds the falling snow. The rod iron bench is still there waiting to welcome someone. I remember sitting there with my grandparents talking about their hopes and dreams for the farm. I wanted to be a part of those dreams but life took me away. And I suppose that is what draws me back.
The screen to the front door still shrieks when I open it. I anticipate opening the door to an empty house.  Each room, painted pale with time, project traces where pictures once hung. I didn’t expect to hear unclear whispers coming from behind the walls. Who is trying to tell me something? The voices come in stronger and distinctly and then reminds me to whom they’re addressing. I guess memories have voices too, endearing and comforting.  
I enter the room I hold closest to my heart, my old room. It seems so much smaller than I remember but I guess my world was smaller back then except the view out the window is as large and beautiful as I remember.
The promise of winter already covers the land like a silken silvery blanket.  As I look out the window, I can see the once bright red barn towering over the property. My boyhood lookout is high in the loft where I kept watch on the horses and cattle and hoping to get a glimpse of a coyote or the mighty black bear. The window is just a foretaste of the property and I am must go out back. As I step out on the back porch gazing out over the land, the pageantry of its beauty is breathtaking.
The 525 acres are stippled with white oak, red maple, elm, and redbud trees. My favorite is the white oak because their blue-green, lobed leaves become burgundy in autumn and remain on the trees over the winter. And their straight trunks reach high in the sky in majestic fashion. My grandmother’s favorite is the redbud, a much smaller tree that parades bright pinkish-red flowers at the first sign of spring.
Several song birds are resting among four oak trees while piping their winter songs, each taking their turn in composed concert. Their plumage displays a variety of brilliant dyes and I wish I were an artist to capture their poetical presence on canvas.
In the distance, the Ouachita Mountains appear as a blur, e.g., its peaks are hazy and the range lines seem to fade away. I squint my eyes to enable me to see farther and more clear through the shield of gray snow clouds. The more I squint the further I am able to visualize this beautiful mountain. The mountains run east and west, an oddity, since most mountains run north and south.
The mountains were original home to the Ouachita Tribe, according to the Encyclopedia of Oklahoma History and Culture, the name comes from the French transliteration of the Caddo word Washita, meaning “good hunting grounds.”
Bison and elk once found habitat in the Ouachita Mountains, but since been extirpated. The elusive black bear still roams the mountains. Today, you can find an abundance of white-tailed deer, coyote, and other common temperate forest animals.
I can hear the tales of yesteryear drumming in my mind, the ceremonial cadences are strikingly beautiful, sending chills up my spine.
Days end is approaching as the clouds and snow hides the dewy dim that begins to blanket the earth. Silence fills the air until night birds begin singing their solemn hymns but I can still hear the snowflakes falling, resting on the grounds and back porch. I cannot imagine a greater gift given me than the love of my grandparents.  And I shall keep them safely tucked away in my heart and soul.
I walk away knowing that this time I will return in a few days to stay.
I love you Samantha and George.

I'm not sure why
But everyone keeps talking about their mothers, lately.
Maybe it's because springtime reminds us of birth
Or perhaps it's because Mother's Day is next month.

I don't know.

But it's got me thinking of you, Mom.
It reminds me of when I barely reached your belly button
When you'd take me in the garden
And show me your green thumb miracles.
I think back on nights when the stars would sing for us
And you would point out which constellations were ours.
So many secrets and stories to be told.

I wonder which state you're burning through
Which highway you're on
And what flowers have captured your attention today.
It's springtime, after all.

Do the redbud trees remind you of me?
Of the long drives to town
When I would drone on like a honeybee
About those delicately beautiful petals.
Me, I smile despite myself when I see the forsythia unpack their trumpets,
And when the irises grow their beards.
You always had a way with flowers.


Even when your words would slur,
You always had a way with flowers.
Even when you would pass out and burn dinner,
You always had a way with flowers.
Even when you stopped coming home at night,
You always had a way with flowers.
Even when you packed your things and left,
You always had a way with flowers.
Even when you didn't get better,
You always had a way with flowers.
Even when I stopped answering your calls,
You always had a way with flowers.

You always did.
I guess you always will.

Redbud trees bleeding at the side of the road.
Must be almost May – the air is humid
and insects rise up out of the grass.
My steps move like a giant.
Every word I speak is the newest sound
in the universe, for a moment.
Or it’s too much pressure – I want to fold up
and be silent for a while. Say my solemn goodbyes
to the last two years and let go.
Maybe I’ll hibernate in the summertime
and come out in the cold. Or I’ll be like a firefly –
lighting up in the battlefields in June,  
synchronize my glow in the Smokey Mountains.
Comfort in the sameness – we all are just blinking,
a figment in the pages. When I write, the only thing
I want to say is: I was here. I was alive. I was happy.

Oak and Elm and Redbud trees
stand stark against winter sky
long ago shed their leaves
their bony fingers reach high.

Waiting patiently for warm days
they tend their souls in soil
they teach us a hundred ways
to dig deep for spirit oil.

Winter’s a time to dwell inside
look in dark corners there
for what we’d rather hide
invite it up for a bit of fresh air.

a single sparrow sings, perched atop one of the hemlocks that stand guard over their kingdom.

busy bees buzz around the redbud tree, bringing pollen to their queen.

a single sparrow sings, perched atop one of the hemlocks that stand guard over their kingdom.

busy bees buzz around the redbud tree, bringing pollen to their queen.

the green garden gate ***** in the breeze, beckoning all with promises of sweet oasis from the summer sun.

the hazy sky and I swap stories,

and the spring peepers serenade us as the night falls, the universe unveiling her silent shadow like blossoms after rain.

the stars told me to say hello