For W.C. Williams Purple Crocuses Atop green shoots Each new spring and All brings An inhalation Breath pulled From this We call it By our favorite Names Earth & tree Which we think Might be Akin to Our town ~
More today They pile up Line up In queues Apart A separate reality Mourning The resilience Of the Daffodils Plucked Uprooted Still bloom ~
Slightly before dawn Looking out one Window He sees Lake Road With cars passing by Spring snow In headlights A car, a truck Turning around The dusted lawn And the lake, The horizon Visible in the blue Light even through The flurry Budding Bare branches Of the Maple Which clings To the bluff-edge Waver in Wind flowing off Ruff water The world Into which he is drawn
Flash Fiction / Prose Poem I go to Burning Man and the first stranger I meet is The Red Barron. He turned a tractor into a Fokker Dr.1, red with a black and silver Iron Cross painted on the tail. Oddly The Red Baron wears cargo shorts and is very fond of psilocybin. He turns me on with shrooms. He also turns me on to Mary the Mad Hatter, a forty something blonde with an absolutely huge blue floppy hat. Mary likes to chit-chat and is sharp as a tack by day, but at night she likes to dance, wearing only clothing made of glow-sticks. I go to her show high as a kite, my body moans; the glow is amazing when in motion to the drone of up-beat trance music, dance is what we all do, what we all grove to in the dark of the desert. Looking around the crowd, I scan faces and spot my old friend LeRoy who I met back in ninety three at a Buddhist retreat in Santa Monica. He's an old hippy and looks like a cross between the fourth Dr. Who and The Gyro Captain from Mad Max, complete with goggles. I dance over to him and we hug, say a few words, and dance together, until he says "Love You Man, I gotta go find Wanda;" he turns on a dime, and spins off into the night to find her. Some people are born to be stars, LeRoy was born a comet.
Step out into crisp End of winter air Wearing only jeans, A hoody, And trail shoes, The birds are back. I traverse the lawn to the stump at the bluff, never looking down but out at the horizon. I get to the stump and feel my foot loose in the shoe. A lone cormorant catches my eye as I lift my foot to the stump. Crossing one lace Over another while watching the swimmer diving for breakfast I fumble the knot. Looking down I watch my fingers work properly not taking a lot of time once the task got my attention rather than the bird.
How is it that we see ourselves. In the decrepit barn? In the house, The fallen roof of the porch Torn down with age, rot Rain, seepage, not the explosion We expect at the end of being. Are we what we do, When we don't pay attention, When we lift the door handle. Walking to the edge Of the meadow One foot swings In front of the other. ~
Gray morning The shoreline Below bluff heights Half-ton stones Tossed, disarray A wedged pipe Bright in daylight Against blackish rocks A rusted bed-frame Remains of a wind-chime Circle of wood Splayed wires Pipes long gone No song Left among flotsam Detritus Of our world ~