Monday, November 30, 2015

on waiting ...

before the blue-glass wall of you
unrecognizable i've become
perched upon a walnut branch
deemed muse
by your tongue, by your hand

let's talk about your hands for a minute, shall we?
how they are all i see when i close my eyes
strong, oak-molasses thick
i shall miss them most of all

i am weary of waiting

gather all my perched
     watchful minutes
alchemy them into ten thousand sparrows


for a thousand years i have waited for you to see me here
waiting behind the glass
watching stars, dust & shadows shift
to dance, to alight, to spark, to fuck, to collide

snow falls heavy today ...
and i will fly away from the blue-glass wall

Friday, November 27, 2015

wrapped ,,,,

you tease me with your need, apples & emptiness
... struggling to hardwire
lounging there in yellow silk boxers 
your fathers blueprint--aging without remorse or awareness
-i hate football-
and struggle to understand my fragility
what is it that binds & stretches to accommodate our twisted, wounded selves
acceptance comes with a cost; 
a kiss tasting of popcorn & fresh red peppers
a blizzard whorls beyond our walls ....
and if you would open just long enough, 

into blue eyes 14 thousand feet deep
and rich with wisdom & words and muscles hard & willing ,,,,
our bones are old and speak of chasms of mirth & merit
replete with lovers, summers & wine ...
why the goodbye... why walls of blue-glass brick ....
only to find the hole again ...
altars of divine care & memory to what was & what could be ...
sparked by flannel warmth & distance spanned by
love ....

Saturday, November 21, 2015


the cut of sorrow lies endless
azure tempered to the tilt of the sun
as it illuminates
grains & gravity
nothing is permanent
nothing is permanent
say it loud and forever long
the salt taste stills with water
water bright upon tongues too weary to speak of color
holding to songs rising , orange blooming in the west
love flowing unbridled by the tight harnessed tempest
yesterday's news
reborn in the soft turning of leaves
aureolin to gold to carmine to gone          
daylight tempts expectation
kinder tide
a gentle nudge to dreams of
thursdays and cellos
pushing past the simple friction of time & breath
to wrap oneself in the depths of
moonlight, melody
to remember 

of nearly twilight

putting down the colored pencil
she took up the
cotton sock to darn a thousand years ago .... thread
falling between fingers alight
eager crisp persimmon possibility poured out of her folded
enfolded borrowed and stolen
she became the one holding the sock
the one holding the red thread
tendering the hole
counting the minutes until his return
forgetting the colored pencil
forgetting the open trees open sky smells of pine promise
pick up the saffron salmon pink
color this twilight
wait no more

Monday, November 16, 2015

buffalo plaid

that dream again;
cowboy bonfires
under novemeber moon's lament
laced & lingered
twisting to tumbleweeds
sweep me into the ash of hope
soothe the whimper of winds cold cold
touch the wool wet from promised snow
I curl into the smoke from your dreams
always dancing to the song of stars

Friday, November 13, 2015

winter birds

the dismantled song of rusted broken things
standing solitary amidst the canary corn
bent, leaned and listening
to songs overhead
use swallowed by weather and worry
linger there awhile ...
until the November sun gleams
a bursting golden metallic promise
furrows of love
songs of birds
winter whispers such sweet undoing 

Tuesday, November 10, 2015

time signature

upcycling the empty hollow places to reverb with extended joy
into the parked-particled corners between sky & bone
heart thrumming to timeless 3/4 rythms
beat on
beat on
the sunshine of this day
this day
hearing the faint echo of some part left stranded upon a lichen boulder
face-up to the sun
as the whisper of wind & water empty me of all regret
i am full of aspen leaves, sorrow & impish possibility
this day
fragility melts in the current ..

golden becomes me

white noise of an afternoon

perhaps it is the fly buzzing in the next room
against the dimpled glass
the echoing
buzz of the speedway 3.7 miles to the south
undercurrent becomes the undertow
distraction to pause;
pause in the paisley steps of the day
pause in the presence of breaths
pause in the wonder of gravity
lucky is the lost

Monday, November 9, 2015


i should have woke you at the dark of three
to see if you still smell of woodsmoke & whiskey
to see if the warm of you radiates in your sleep
and if your hands can erase the doubt of me

i should have called when the leaves turned red
to hear that note of 1977 in your voice
to feel the static current of now pressed against my cheek
and to let my mouth go dry with the words you said

i should stand in the sunlight naked & fearless at two o'clock in the afternoon
to listen for the blue jay's call
and the rumble of being
to breathe with the westerly wind as it waits upon the moon

i should know if you taste of cinnamon & morning