Pattern

Trace
of silhouettes
jive
on walls.

Thoughts shadow
close.

As the day breathes.
Unnoticed.

Patterns of black and white,
crosshatched cobwebs
tag along
grasshopper seconds
beguiled.

Fire

Ignite then
slowly inside
deep.
Without the song of smoke
or crackle of splinters.
Like an obscure
splash of water
in the womb of aged rivers
born from butterfly-oars
sailing through nameless fogs.
Before

Kohl snows,
dreamful,
dark.
from ashes
burnt.
Awake wide,
magic brimming,
windswept.

Carried through maritime
sand dunes
Aflight on
desert’s wings.
As the monotone dusk sits licking
blisters,
hollowed
out
to memory.

Of storms and related things

Each day winds blow,
cocoa dark
from north to south
east to west
and wherever they go
unwithheld.
They bring the
youth of flowers
the fable of death
and wars
to some.
Aged winds from hushed wildflowers
frenzied and burnt.
Long lived.
Some from the sea, moist,
tranquil.


Each day a night grows,
naked
unkempt and wistful
on the tender mesh of swansong laziness.
feeding on the echoing madness
that is left behind.
The moon only rises to mold it.


Each day we falter
to speak
of hopeless causes
and long lost reasons
but the world still spins
through some cannibal spell
that makes not a pause.

And each a day distance grows
From the fallen leaf
to the absent ear.
And we do not hear
the sepulchral skies
that the tree sings.

Each day a fire dies,
behind the wooden heart of logs
and barks
ashes to ashes.
Flesh, blood and bone,
And another ignited.

A left and a wrong

Sometimes I feel abjectly empty and aching
like a dry twig
when some ornate desires pull me into fragments.
But I look away.
And sigh..
this is not my place
and go on unmaking the making of days.

As tsunamis inside plea a release
I lock them up in the glance behind.
I can’t look backward.
Memory is fragile.

Some random callings are still left unanswered.
But I gather speed as I travel across equinox lips.
I flicker an eyelash of a shadow,
but a left and a wrong
don’t make me smile.
So here I am waiting
Bee-wise and shoe-shined
for another afternoon with the wildflowers.

But I must drown sense and carry
this raging fire
To wherever it must go
A calling it says
that needs answering.
Who needs a fire?
I am done burning.

A cuckoo sky

The cuckoo mind breaks loose on
grasshopper winds,
on borrowed wings of
cotton-light clouds.

As cuckoo silences get lost
in green grass fields like
skittering butterflies.
from one reticence to another.

The wayward heart plays with
the frenzied breath
across winter’s picket fences,
as I sit peeling
the orange sun in evening's lap.

And countless nights are born
into autumn glaze.
As sundown, breezes wild
in a desire to sleep, undone.

And then, at that unfastened moment,
my cuckoo heart breaks open into
the green of rainforests
like the galloping hoof of an agile drop.

Musings

Verdant clouds
of black-currant darkness
may you float at a loose end
of the infinite vastness of dreams.


Suffuse inside with the fragrance of
embosomed flowers
And sail me to the shores of
vanishing sundown and fading stars.

And when sleep kissed eyes
drift to delusional shores
Take my dormant dawns
away to green grass winds.

As I cradle quietly among
rain sprinkled tendrils of the dusk
secretly flood my eyes in your chime.

And when I have lost my last bit
of sand-speck speech, unfurl
your fingers to the call of my gypsy river.

A hand of fog

Some winning hands after
when the passage of time disappears
from my fingertips
I will choose this day,
If it remains,
Among myriad forgotten mysteries,
keeper of secrets, as a bookend.

But If I lose today,
Through the hollow faith of a lost dreamer,
I shall also lose the entrance to all that has passed.

Unwilling to play.
I leave this thought in your merry hands.
And float forever in a quest.


7/4/2006 11:05 AM - First Posted

And

now was when then
across waterfall nights
stoned in the sea of
cobweb darkness.

Two feet of cross-eyed light
Lost in reverie
await the wisdom of chestnut dawns.

The seedless arid wind
Took me in a mouthful
And carried off across leaf high falls
A few memories ago
In search of what I don’t recall.

Was it you? my spring.
Is it you?

7/3/2006 9:11 PM - First Posted