Evening attire

Sol’s sweet caress

lingers in the evening glory

while brisk breezes 

dance on the ends of hairs

stiffened by their presence

 

the dressing of night

smudges the blue hue

and shines the gems 

hidden from view 

this wave of a fine 

dark feather fan

releases the eternal above 

to humble what daylight reveals

and expand the possibilities ahead

in this starlit lunar show

where the crows go

 

A flock of seagulls

the travel log 

must be extraordinary

for the seabirds

that return to the middle

and to give up

that briny shore and

salty ocean breeze

where primordial life 

once poured out of

for the middle

where one must follow

a tractor and plow

to scrounge in the earth

for whatever may crawl 

or wriggle out to sacrifice

itself for dinner

instead of plunging into

endless deep blue waves 

for a pound of silvery fish flesh

one must question

the reasoning behind

this seasoning travel

 

Cold wet grass

bare feet on

cold wet grass

flesh flows over

the fallen rain

hanging on each blade

the sky above echoes of

the wings of crows

as night filters through

the heavy sullen clouds

in silken petals shines

the golden sun

beacons among 

the shadows and green

bare feet grasp

the ache of wet cold

yet tarry on the lawn

 

Clearing of thistles

the sharp teethed leaves

in green rosette

of the early growth

so eager and vicious

tucked in among

the wild violet blooms

and blushing peony stems

and anywhere else

the downy seeds 

may have fallen last Fall

yet sharper blades

plunge into the earth

knightly swords plunging

into the bosom of

the scaly dragonish beast

never giving chance 

for violet silks to give rise 

to the same downy seeds

that may have fallen last Fall

In the music

this music

makes me think

of our talks

when we'd sneak

away in the dark

to get lost in

each other's words

there was none

of this silence

every little thought

would spill out

uninterrupted and

willing

sometimes my

voice would become

yours and you

would finish where

I had left off

and if we had gone

to a palm reader

I bet they wouldn't

have known whose hand

was whose

you always

gave me perspective

and I hope I

always gave you

hope

when our talks

felt like music

 

Weaving it

rain gently drips

on tulip petals

my fingertips flow down

the back of your neck

thick gray clouds

drift through the sky

your warm breath 

whispers in my ear

temps in the forties

chill the house

our eyers linger

within their gaze

water beads on 

the roof of the car

your laughter feels

like home

the rain sounds

an applause on the roof

we get lost without

going anywhere

 

 

Cardinal

he whispers in

a presence alight

in the reddest ember

to catch any eye

amid the blackbirds

the mask he wears

gives rise to his air

and dashing spirit

he's a ruby rose

that has found 

lightning essence

and the vehicle

in which to fulfill

his wish for flight

 

 

Enough said of bread

there's bread

in the back yard

again

little fluttery flights

getting too caught up

in their bird brain

drama

it was just one

the one bird who

thought,

"I don't give a flock"

and took off with

the chunk of bread

for itself

it was chased down

over my back yard

where fear took

over flight 

and bombs away

another bread crust

bites the dust

 

Tricky kits

I leave these little

good luck charms

in the garden

on all fours

and intact

instead of on keychains

though the price

may be a cherry bush

decapitated tulip or

nibbled foliage throughout

I've found their

tricks are much better

than any breakfast cereal

 

House of extractions

I knew her once

and found her

in a secluded home

tucked in the rolling

hills of the plains

I knew what she was

and her kiss came

as a great surprise

I wondered how she

could overcome

her primal instinct

and resist the impulse

to bite instead

her guests were many

and just as she was

and vanity seemed

to be the only topic

of their conversations

I found myself somewhat

giving freely what they

wanted from me as they

took it from my neck

with a syringe again

and again in my agony

a clear liquid they extracted

in between my shrieks

but what else should 

I had expected in 

the company of vampires

 

North from Woodlawn

vulture circles emerge

and waltz across

the morning sky

they have waited

for the sun's glory

to have faded

from the clouds

these obsidian aviators

are methodical in

their morning maneuvers

more so than their smaller

cawing counterparts

who take more joy

in their chaotic spontaneity

 

And then there are tools

so many distractions

these clowns that

wear masks

who truly are

the teachers you

search for

and they may show

you the way of

what to do

or the way of 

what not to do

either way they

are there to show

you the way

and whatever trinkets

they are selling

in the long run

you will find

they become the tools

you will need 

to learn that the only

tool you will ever need

is your own heart

 

Alarmed clock

there's something

to be said

about being roused

from sleep

at 6:30 am on a 

Sunday morning

from a voice

that simply says,

"Hey!"

it pulls you from

possibly touring

a collection of items

you may have

once possessed

in a former life

or wipes away

visions of your grandparents

who came back

after their funeral

because though that

may have been

a big event for them

that wasn't all there

was for them

they have more lessons

to teach you

but instead that voice

echoes through your

ears as you lay awake

suspended in not knowing 

who exactly just said,

"Hey!"

 

 

Dream houses

finding yourself on a road you once knew

but now your memories deceive your reality

or better yet your dreams

and dreams not of your choice

but those trips your subconscious

is in the driver's seat for

the dust was kicking up

in the rearview mirror

and the gravel road had

an upcoming sharp fork

a lover once known

threw the steering wheel left

and the pickup spun out

into a field of dried soybeans

a draw laid ahead in the road

where two remnants of grand houses

were barely hanging onto the world

found at the hearth just inside the door

was an uncle once despised but now pitied

this blowhard had now deflated

as had the life that surrounded him

no satisfaction was found in this

merely disconnection, so sublime

Invitation to an ancient god

the soil turned over

easily as the shovel 

blade ran through it

tiny roots were already

very impatient in the

early April morning

green necks of allium

both garlic and onion

were vibrant in the sun

spinach leaves from

last Fall's planting

showed resilience 

lines were drawn in

the turned wet earth

for the eager tiny roots

while one line filled

fully with onions the

garlic filled only half

bones of former trunks

of castor beans filled

the trellis for the vines

squirrels chased crows

from the bird bath but

nothing was achieved

a lonely dragonfly flew

past as a reminder of

a friend of a former time

the early green planting

was watered in for the

wet earth to wait for God