poetry & things

Poems

Amerind

From mud walled homes

these remnants come, artifacts of shell and bone

leather shoes and deerskin coats

woolen blankets and woven rugs,

baskets for storing grain and corn.

Grinding stones and sun bleached bones

antiquities and memories found in fields of sand,

necklace beads of finest hammered silver

now forgotten and lost, and too the river’s water.

Came a sorrowful war with bullet guns

that pierced the heart of every man

no match for shooting arrows.

Forest ways

In these woods

where I am small, I watch breath rise and fall

in these pines of a hundred years or more

from pine cones, skyward moving slow.

I watch rain running down craggy bark,

soaking softly the moss and flowers below.

In the summer sun of heat, I lose myself complete

in the fragrant warmth of pinewood air.

The moss – yellow, green

in waves, it hangs wispy from the trees

Here where evening brings the birds and breezes quivering,

the wind shakes the forest trees, deep and echoing

the ravens woods speak to thee.

Ocean home

Living on the ocean as I do, I hunt fish and mollusks

my kin are otters and whales, wide eyed we dive

the night waves, soft in lullabies

in a sea dream, starlit and moon cradled

my lips are sparkling and salt flecked

my eyes wide awake from sleep

in a myriad of visions these sea colors

all my days, swum in a variance of blues

oceans deep and streaked in silver shoals

the day skies fade and die, into nights

plush and indigo blue.

At night

In bars wandering amid the metal and cages,

amid the loud banging of voices, dull as broken bells

rung from the sloshing of drinks, in shirts red inked with wine.

Smoulder and fog, cigarettes now drawn and dead

down this cold alley of vagrants painting nightly,

wildly until dawn.

Music school

I play guitar unpolished

red rust of my finger tips, bleeding

no school for this, still I wish

I’d somehow gone or sang with

my mouth unbound and loud

sang like a deep well of bells

that rang each day and I had come to listen.

Northern spring

Clear water, drinking in – earth soaked

purple violets and fiddle headed ferns

cold bulbs and garden tubers, buds and flowers unfurl.

This mating clash of birds, their chirpy squawks and words,

an aromatic lilac trance, a variance of blue.

Grass and toes, cool and cold

northern winds of spring.

Tucson

In this city house amid the screaming sirens,

here in the whirling of paper and garbage

I hear the banging of trucks over broken roads,

low rider stereos, their deep boomed, throaty moans.

Here in this strange forest that flies with cactus birds

alluringly they sing in secret symphonies,

before the howling chorus of coyote calls,

the rising magnetic moon, a mountain flower

pink blushed that fully blooms.

With wings

In spring with green buds

I dream of flowers, the silk petals of your lips

the flashing of butterfly lashes

soft upon my flesh

kisses flitting soft winged

across my face

in a myriad of colors

we’ll create.

Cemetery

This cemetery of broken stones, the gray hanging trees

of moss draping down to the crab grass and leafy lawns.

This silent field of sticks and bones, of breath long gone

tiny grave of an infant child one day old.

Behind this black rusty fence, wrought iron and bent

circling round the dead, a strange cage we’d like to escape

forgetting our fate, we smile and pretend.

Cherry birds

Plum tree with a thousand bees

honeymoon of bliss and flowers

little winds of petals blowing round

in a blaze of spring, pink and cherry red

diaphanous and dewy on the ground.

I drown in the succulence of your lips, I kiss

drinking deep in wildflower meadows.

The sun it melts the cold to spring

and in the morning we watch cheery birds

flit and hop upon the lawn

amid the daffodil yellows.

Falling

Black, hollow world of sky – starless

alone in this darkened room

dreaming of the star showers that fell

last night from your lips

quivering.

St. George island

In Florida

the beach cut in half

cool sun baked cake, one side blue

the other side white in swirling sands

and after the waves of tide left

birds stamped footprints

webbed and wet

that disappeared in the afternoon sun

sand art lost, and windswept.

This field

I cannot write anything, the way my heart tells it

soft in murmurs or echoing loudly as it does

cannot drift the way I’d like, floating freely as dandelion

or milkweed seeds wild in these fields.

I hear words, like arrows piercing in.

I feel shocks and waves that come

to cover me up, disappearing

facing the jangled places head on

letting go of over again

my fears, only transient clouds

and after the washing rains

the birds – singing, flying.

Ash and Spring

Ashen white clouds, pale as these grey bones

strewn across this desert floor and lit

by the glint of a million sparkling stones

these diamond pixels shine amid giant saguaro people

moving slow and trailing the sun, they fade with flowers

that come to close and hide away beneath the moon

underground, with deep rooted tubers

they move, pushing away cold stones

pushing through darkness

star gazing they dream

of Spring, dream of

the coming sun.

Crow

Outside my door a cawing crow

of blackened wings and indigo

delivered by night’s shivering storm.

The wind and winter’s howling call,

scattered nests and down the feather falls.

Crack of limbs, cold and bare branched

mesquite leaves and needles spiral to the ground.

In a swooping field he flies into the tallest pines

deep and slow, the trees creak

wild in cello tones.

Winter and spring branches

These winter trees

cold and shouldering winds

their bending branches unhinge

falling limbs crash and break the snow

further still a secret world of mud and bulbs

that in the spring blooms of tulips and violet mossy lawns

and too, the sun that comes to warm and fills with green the tree arms

this wooded home that breathes with sheltering birdsong.

The desert, rain drenched

The afternoon sky with its wine dark clouds

red blushed and blue, moments before the rain drenching greys

the scurrilous skies, the black winged silhouettes that fly

amid the cactus trees, thick with chaparral

a total reconstruction of sunny soft memories

this cold tumbling storm that moves overhead

to form, this desert raining lake.

Cold of November

Now these clouds, the cold mean greys

sideways rain, the north lands I remember

the drowning air of smoke and fire

nights traveling the dark road to your home

the black and spark of stars, we watched

through the night, before the killing dawn

before the fog, the cold that held us down

the clinch and grasp, the slow stinging wasp

the allure and hum of bees

the honey meadows of scattered petals

only a fleeting summer – we gathered

now swallowed in the autumn thunder,

the bruising cold of November.

Into the invisible

Like stars fading into the blue of day

the blackness that somewhere slips away

how the sun fire burns clouds into the air

the river that wends through lands, a stream no longer seen

a winding path, a deer trail I follow, the sun shadows that swallow

the light of this sycamore forest, where time is somehow lost

amid the trees of blue and silver contrast

beyond these woods, my eyes follow

birds, that fly into the sky hills

far and disappearing.

Locked door

Someone’s at the door, he wants to know me

I am lonely as a thousand dark winters

and because of the deep blue of you,

the wrecked sea of you and me

and much to my chagrin

I will not let him in.

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