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When I roam the real forestgrumpy apple trees spit their spoiled rotten children on my shoulders knowing I will collect them and mash their cores into cider.Their leaves refuse to form shadows nor shade me, letting the sun scorch my monk’s crown deep cardinal red.The weeping willows shed snickers not tears.The oaks refuse their goodness…
Read More "When I Am Among the Trees (not after the poem by Mary Oliver)"
As I exitthe world of green dinosaursfused from abandoned rusty automobiles and steaming in the sun,a child offered me a giant peachharvested from a Palisade treegrown in the valley’s katabatic winds. It tasted of harsh-sweet stolen pleasures,lust and greed and love and dried fruit,full of Ute tears and diverted waters,memories between prayers and laments buried…
After Adam died Eve designed a house of wooden ribs. 2 She created it to never burn down. 3 It was full of happy walls and bright colors that never faded. (The next owner painted them gray.) 4 The rainbow colors would daub off on every guest’s fingerprint, an intended souvenir. 5 Nautilus shells placed…
As when his son, a pensive animal lover,on his first hunt,had to face the doe in his scope,his first kill lined up for the taking,breath held firmly before trigger plunge,the forest circling, fear trembling his lips, doe moving from view, gaze,his father behind, a looming granite mountain crushing himlike an avalanche of scold that he…
If lucky I will die in a room of non-hospital green, on plump pillows, good linens, with good family and good friends,the ghosts of loves, the odoramaof nitrate seas, forests or mountains on walls.Room where well-cast dreams lived and died. Will my death be the end of a long love,mystery, tragedy or comedy,flashback to life…
Blow the dust of history off our bones. In the excavated ribs of ancient sailing shipsfind the burial chambers of kings. Blow the dust of history off our bones.In the dig just below them, but just over the rubble of the blitz are the cracks in the golden cathedral’s dome.Blow the dust of history off…
Every year I knowingly cross the unknown date that will complete my tombstone,the day last fires will turn ice and my deafness will make the silence my true and final friend- and I will cradle the earth that cuddles my mother.Maybe I will share that anniversarywith her or some dear friend but undoubtedly with other…
they took the body out but the blood/bloodstain stayed there. the investigation begins. that’s the police’s job. but after the death the cleaner cleans. he cleans up blood, pieces of bone, skin, maggots, flies everything that a corpse/body leaves behind. the smell of decomposition/death will be gone by the time he finishes…
“I am but mad North North west; when the wind is Southerly, I know a hawk, from a hand saw.” (Hamlet, Act 2, Scene 2) Only God sees and knows dove from spoon, can feign the smoothness of heaven, let the mind see hawk and handsaw open in the wide shed behind the house,…
Read More "Only God Knows Dove from Spoon, Man a Hawk from a Handsaw"
