Muddied boots

leave your muddied
boots at the door
don't need your
footsteps on my floor

nor the wet earth
with all its weight
a rainy day that's
come way too late

tipsy clouds spill
out their wine
and scurry off
in time for shine

yet it's the weathered
ones who know
that without rain
it's just a bow

in darkened days
the light is dear
sometimes in laughter
there's a tear

a flood will wash
away the past
to make your dreams
come true at last

those crazy clouds
spill out their wine
and rush away
in time for shine

the weathered ones
are those who know
that without rain
it's just a bow

dams and levees
are often for naught
stop of flow
can lead to rot

leave those muddied
boots at the door
after this tide you
won't need them anymore

'cause trippy clouds
are pouring out their wine
and rushing away
in time for shine

those weathered ones
aren't the only who know
that without rain
it's just a bow

The pool

bathe between
basking to remember little of the pool crawled out of
the pool's ponders
of passing present
and how future presents

of clay and ash
burnt in the kiln
to harden, to break,
to crumble and powder
for liquid lips to quench
their thirst for
earthen flesh and the rest

that stirs the waters
for memories laid low
and laden below with
weighty deaths, the births too anxious to wait to pull taffy trapped between what one believes,
what one knows in soul

the whole that all
fell into and from to
waken from the waves
crashing upon sullied vessels and rise
from murky cradles

the pool to birth
to forget former drops
that teared and ran from
flickering flames, released
and relented what drained
through grasping fingers

that stirs more than silt
the ash of deeper chasms
unknown to busy toils, all
too familiar to frequent
pauses taken throughout the day

no night nor day lingers
to dangle a toe in the pool
beyond the bath the ticks tock
and leaves fall and rot
yet all who have played and fought
are the endless tides of the pool

From dreams

from dreams the lot is lost
in cast out prisms which beckon
naught the glory of hue
from crimson blood
flooding indigo blue

prisms beckon instead
those puzzled memoirs lurking
in drowned chasms of the head
drowned victims released
after arising from the bed

the release of bloated
corpses who have been
thrown down endless stairwells
the release of rare hells
that hunger with brimming bellies

and in the letting go
of ravaged moments,
times which have been
over savored to tastelessness
their cocoons are severed
for silk on tiny legs to fly

to fly through raining
sunlight and the snuffed out
bonfires of words

In the rain

words on a page
smolder red in a rage
and flicker in the
pouring...

rain was the way
we danced in that day
and trickled down the
flowing sea

it was you and me
and nothing but the...
clouds, cried aloud
from their lofty prison cells
gray was the day
in deafening thunder
and clouds unbecoming themselves

red on a bird
flew away with a word
and shuttered in the
freezing...

pain was to stay
to dance another day
and utter just a
bleeding lie

no more you and I
and nothing but the...
clouds, cried aloud
from their aching tortured hells
betray another day
in deafening thunder
and clouds unbecoming themselves

Orange glazed horizons

awaken the eyes
the rise from slumber
to a burning soul
in orange glazed horizons

still the tassels twirl
in sweeping swirls of
pollen-laced clouds
by sleepless breezes

these, the breezes
keep green dance partners
from rest at peace
least at this hour

in flower, the cosmos
with blended golden
azure ripples in unfolding
petals of the day

lace makers of foliage
yawn in this orange dawn
with grinning green teeth
and v hind legs

their cousin man
no longer shares their
emerald smile, after all
it's been awhile

since their fingers plucked
a leaf or two to sit and chew
and have their fill
of raw in state chlorophyll

now when man beams
from ear to profit dreams
the last tooth is blue from
time spent smoking the sky

no need for those teeth of
green, they have been wean
to sip on numerical words
and liquid earthen blood

and awaken their eyes
the rise from slumber
to a burning soul
in orange-glazed horizons

Portrait of a Poppy

Knowing up from up

what keeps the water in the land
to hold its drops from dripping up
and raining down into the sky

for eyes of you or even mine
are looking up into the blue
yet looking down from another view

our magnet soles cling to the land
when into the nightly abyss our
gaze pours down into the sky

for lies anew or even of old
are spilled into the cosmos
and retold for every directional cue

Canvasing

timid hairs rise on the arm
on the extended hand
of the brush laced with thickened hue
pouring pain and pleasure both
in each and every stroke

that strokes the tightened skin
stretched to never move again

but move it does
in twisted calico contours
that tunnel through a neighbor's brain
in stark chilling structures
seeded in tearful black rain

rain that spatters
and tatters purest of white
the naked flesh of the mirror
flashing pieces of soul...

whole, diced, sewn up and spliced

mindful blind eyes look
into the twin,
the skin enveloping the frame
the same of a different name
whose will will never tame

for wild throats scream
across the spectrum of light
screams that resonate colors
of the passing moonlit night
echoing in fractured streams
in blended realistic dreams

where moths are released from the heart
then explode before us to impart
in a new creation, in something called art

Woven

will has woven blades of grass
and white aloft in astral fields
what surrender has puddled
from shattered slicing notions

the woven lines once
stood in distant island groves
where within boyhood ponders
lurked among the misty morns

yet rises sol in solar planes
and morns weep for death of night
in dewy tears that ascend
to white aloft in astral fields

those standing lines bowed
for surrender of soul to scythe
the cutting blade releasing
time stored in youthful fears

and rooted lines laid low
to gather for life's bundled shock
in rootless pursuits of the
now fruitless distant island groves

woven what will has tailored to
pooling surrender from a vein or few
the past portions gobbled up from view
what could have been ensues

In earth

what makes the earth
what earth has built and sown
and fed and named its own

for feeding threads
who have weaved the past
atop their grandfathers' fields
who have weaved the past
what their history yields

and wields the earth
a scythe and gnashing teeth
to reap and eat the old
in chasms deep beneath

so floats the former
in effervescent seltzer seas
where gummy worms meld
in bird-built grassy bowls
congeals the felled

in stone and trunks
that wandered green grass hills
the dead put them in their place
when an empty grave fills

thus earth is made
when sacrificed are the things
that succumb to their dreams