Seasons

Blisters of change
Old skin
new places
gone to
Old places
new skin
here again
A calling
for greater harvest
blister
harken change
Old lane
on a fresh journey
movement of life
An old place
A new direction
restored.

dedo pequeño del pie

Dancing child
alight with slippered foot
glaze the petals of morning
your footfalls
tracing dew streaks
across the humid breath
of a summer's rain

Lamp Light

Evening's lights of Main St.
compliment the lady.
their fingers run through her hair.
Heel strikes
in time
the great clock raining neon upon her.
Tonight she has decided
she is beautiful.
Quieting breeze
her movements
slow
down
time.
We love her
beauty.
Glimpse the divine.
Moments pass
shifted light residuum
Left us
with unlaced
melodies.

Mail and Magic

To receive something in the mail is a magical thing.  Here we have a box atop a post, in the wall or in our door which like a rabbit from a hat on occasion magically presents its user, for we cannot really own such a device (consider if it is moved inside how its magic evaporates), with wonderful things.  

A host of items appear in the box.  Of these items we are less than enamored with a few, which are but a nuisance.  A select few of these mythical beasts are unicorns.  Things of great beauty.  Items we immediately experience joy through their arrival.  At times these morsels are devoured on the spot.  Others still are reserved in their vestal state for a time when they will be sipped and savoured in private.  

A parcel in the mail box is the rainbow of our day.  What it might contain is the pot of gold.  Do we open it right then or wait?  Do we shake the box?  Is it marked from someone we know?  Are we a reveler of surprise and wait to look at the label until provided with a hot cup of tea and soft chair?  What could it be?  

The magic of the mail is not contained in the envelopes and boxes of the post.  It is not the contents. Not even close.  The mail metaphysics cannot be owned, kept or even grasped in your hands for a fleeting moment.  They transcend the physical world we mortals live in.  The magic is in the idea of the mail.  We are a recipients of its gifts of emotional gratification.  We the unmistakable target of this parcel.  The unseen process of its journey and its patient respite in our magical box.  

The book is magic at its finest.  The written word is a time machine and a keepsake of our souls.  In the scrawl of man you will find the heart of the fragile creature.  A child recently shared a poem with me written by a long deceased man.  This man though sharing little actual time with her has a special place in her mind and heart.  He accomplished this by writing her a poem when she was just a newborn.  This one piece of paper with a bit of ink on it evokes a strong emotional response in the child as its story does in those exposed to it.  It is also a thoughtfully wrought poem which expressed the strength of his emotions for her.  

A book in the mail is a unicorn in a rainbow.  Smoke in the wind is the parcels arrival and consumption.  The label read, the box or envelope eviscerated and its contents revealed chase the magic from the room.

Wisteria

fire and shadows
delights bestowed
the steady wind of you
blows so unceasingly
begging the question
'will I stand if it ceases?'
your constant pressure upon me
support I have grown around
a parasitic symbiosis
granting easy life
by invading the mortar of my joints
you are a beautiful creature
time has bestowed you
gifts
your youth's cacoon
chrysalis
silken shroud
scarified and removed
you as I met you
in ninety-six
returned
youth remains in your eyes
motherhood has polished
your soul
abrading the residue of
poisonous thoughts
cleansed mind
washed in time and tear
roots cut at the trunk
'we are not trees'
picked up and shaken
free to dance.

Ants on a Rock

The ants on the rock
they have singular purpose

The ants on the rock
no concept of time

The ants on the rock
do not watch me and ponder

The ants on the rock
they chase after food
no discouraging words shared
or bad moods

The ants on the rock
do not fret during slumber
neither burdened or
encumbered with thinking

The ants on the rock
drill forth at their pace
across the shadows of us
at our hurried haste

The ants on the rock
no hearts they possess
to churn and ache
in their black polished chests

The ants on the rock
have no lessons to teach
No mistakes no emotions
no falling in love
no misteps of grandeur
no head over heels

The ants on a rock
seek only a meal.

Aqua

Butterflies dance
the meadow of morning
wild onion scents the air
pines swerve in the soft breeze
poquitos kratis
as small things rule
blooms, bugs and grains of sand
Big blue dragonfly
ripples like Saturn's rings
reflected on the silt below
Damselfly dreamers
on the blades of grass
floating on
life's summer days

True North

I've lost my compass
hung around my neck
it has guided me
from childhood to today
I've lost my compass
it does not worry me
the years of guidance
made these ridges my friends
My compass gone
it is for me to know
where I go next.

Blood Sucking Dainties

Morning sun
drive back
the vampires of night
they lap up my blood
until you arrive
expectant vampire mothers
as gentle fairies alight
upon my skin
and drink in my life
to preserve their own
morning sun
clear the air of these mothers
who's parting gifts are
welts and irritation.

Brown Trout

Brown trout
wary creature
exotic brought here
for a challenge
hard to find
hard to catch
worthy of obsession
to win your favor
is the heart's own trophy