Paper birds

from the office window
take flight the paper birds
their pages of wings flutter
and shuffle through the breeze


up to the tallest branch
of the bending bundle of boughs
the paper birds soar and impale
themselves on the swaying hands


clutched and held so tight
the figuring of overdue debts
lap up the drops of night rains
and bleed onto the gold lawn below


ink stained tears into the mud
flows the words from 1948 year
when mom and pop shed their own
their tears now neither there nor here


and paper birds still roost there
weathered and plastered to their own
bleached and pure of words
the death and freedom of paper birds

Sight unseen

never wanted or
couldn't have turned
my head and glance away


so difficult to do
when there's no escape
from the sight unseen...
when bestowed the fly's
multifaceted pair of eyes


only one thing to do
when what isn't yet
or what's been again
grabs on to shoulders
whispers, shakes, then screams


they are the twinkles
that have traveled in time
in dark and cold and space
to show a figure drawn out
from dot to star to dot
penned upon cosmic sheets


they lurk in the ordinary
the everyday happenings
to be swallowed up unless
the sight's net plunges in
and pulls them safely
to digesting discernment


only then the pattern's path
unfolds the fern's bracket
in the warm Spring of view


only then are scriptures spared
and numbers flow freely
through the pollen laden air


never wanted or
couldn't have turned
away and missed the sight

Jargon jaunting: part dirt

spade spilled soil
clods, the clots
do glimmer glow
slug slathered slime
the creeping seeping creeps
feisty feasting fiends
yet halt the salt!
none at their tater table






damp dug dirt
rooms, the wombs
you excavate earth
for sown silent seed
the wriggly winding worms
favor tending friends
so weave the leaves
into their composting compote

Sycamore and 26th

don't rest under the sycamore
there's work yet to be done

the road bleeds into the sky
in the rising of the sun

though you're in the middle
of leaving sleep behind in bed

yawns must be drowned in
coffee that pours into your head

don't stop at the sycamore
a bit further you must go

to listen to the masses
cooing to them as they crow

vital are you, the courier
of information and words

even at times you may feel
all the crowing is for the birds

don't get held up at the sycamore
your place is still on east

though tangled, garbled voices
may seem a fearsome beast

steady on past the sycamore
where your gleaming sword awaits

albeit a phone rather than sword
alas, cruel were the fates

Them and wind

the coats piled on
layered, lacquered leaves
of lives lived long ago
so far passed they
have yet to come


the ashes cling to
the air once was there
dust trickles down
demolished demigods
in late September


gnarled and smooth
the grasping claws
of earthbound towers
whose sap runs thin
the blood of eras


twisted tussle of dance
in the dying afternoon
and under the gluttonous moon
they call, "Friend, come to me!
Wind, blow through me!"

A September mourning

heavy breath

upon faded blades

retreats the pulse

of humming wings

earth draws back

the green

silks adorned 

with hollow shells

flowers fail 

to fully fruit 

before the first

kiss of frost

dims the candle 

of the sky

as it sinks into

southern songs

crows call out

for the cold

Eve

her fingers crawl over the sky
a spider's scamper thither, there
zig zagging weave of purple
gloom in high drifting feathers


the gold is ravenously reaped
from azure fields, gobbled up
from fiends with coal dust wings
claws that tear the day apart


dimming hours tick away
into shadows dancing for
glory of moonlight splendor
dilated pupils shall be taught


from the earth pours out
the souls soured from ash
and worms and biting beasts
that carry prey into the tombs


bones collect as twigs and
branches from a heavy ice
and grinding teeth sings to
sleep the sweet lifeless lullaby


foul the air that drifts upon
a torrent breeze to chill the flesh
the scratching breath of night
to growl and howl then bite


from hollowed out logs
crawl the throngs of creeps
and swarms to overtake as one
with stinging thorns and venom


spurred on these offspring
of shadows within darkest black
cackles thunder through the air
from the night hag named Eve

Unearthed

unearthed the underneath 

of retired and tiring bodies

in decay and repose

exhumed the exhaust

of passing past 

in layers of the dust

in rust a tumor toils

upon the nails 

the timeless plague of boils

to shatter shards

below flower yards

for feisty feasting roots

your sanity lost

rolled away the marbled globe

and what your thoughts may cost

here's hoping it went unused

at least from where it was found

in the front lawn's ground

for swingers

that is of a small white ball

don't make good neighbors at all

Blank

blank, the thirsty page
my eyes rest upon.
its ravenous stare
eagerly awaits the
caress of my words,
be it fingers gliding
over keys or hand
dragging ink soaked pen.


this page, the mirror
that only states what
it has been given
and reflects outward
all of what was
heaved from the inward.


each letter, each syllable,
each line laid down
to pull my soul out
and onto the table below.


there my reflection swims
in the literary pool,
an oracle of my own fate.


showing where my
shadow has blackened the
earth, my past has cast
the line and lure through
my present image in the pool
to fish the future feast.


and round it goes for
us all in words in print
and voices softly spoken,
as simply circles form
whenever my pen bends
and touches the thirsty
page with its blank...

Squirrels and hornets

order is a human illusion
and squirrels and hornets
are the first to remind
that not everything can
be kept in a straight line


and never was there a river
that longed to flow in such a manner
still they rage behind the dams
to tear them down and run free


for chaos is the thirsty root
that feeds the sprig of choice
it nourishes the prophet
giving the soul a voice


sing they do from mountaintops
and twirl in the dance eternal
among quasars and specks