A Morning to Savor

I like the pale, cool greyness of this morning.

Mist veils soft green foliage
billowing against the sky.

Problems seem so far away,

shrouded by the fog.

The world is quiet

and soft,

cloistured and safe.

I savor the moment,
a neophyte ready for her oath.

"O APPETITE"

Wildmen

often chew

on the edges of books

rending their pages ‘till

tattered and frayed.

Choirs of ladies

ingest

translucent,

incorporeal bonbons,

jouet jouetes,

sweet and lilting,

ephemeral  and light.

Bijoux

presentations

10 cents a show.

The ardent reader

moves across the page

eyes intent 

catching each allusion

savoring each construction

feeling the metaphors

Kantingly engaged.

Mrs. O’Clary

marks her page

with a bit of buttermilk.

2 tbsp. b. p.

3/4 tsp. a. p.

a dash of almond.

Little Jenny

tucks V. Rabbit

under her arm pit

sucking

her thumb

in she digs 

pulling handfuls

of buggers

which stick on the page

like so many glots

 of white alum paste.

O appetite

thou hoary beast

ye’ roam among the briars

and lead a lad and many a lass

to complicated Dryers.

The Victim

Her eyes were vacant,

flat slabs of black in a swollen face

that emanated hatred.

She barely moved her lips,

Her words falling flat:

The facts were wrong

She had three broken ribs

and numerous contusions.

My heart ached.

How could one human being

inflict so much distress

on another?

What would drive a person 

to so completely wound 

and damage this woman?

Memories of You (Fall 2010)

We demand of others 

what we have no right to ask,

And perhaps that is what makes them

love us.

You reached out to me,

And it was painful, hurtful,

left me angry,

Yet somehow touched my heart.

As I view your son years later,

I remember what you said to me

on that cold winter day four years ago:

“I don’t want my son to know.”

There is a pureness and sweetness

to this young man,

And I understand your urgency.

There is sadness in the air

as we stand together at your grave.

Steps fall in silent rhythm 

as feet shuffle through the passageways of time.

I think of you,

of warm and tender moments

spent wrapped in your arms.

I remember your smile and your laugh,

a sweet boy who offered love and peace:

It was the ‘70s and we were young.

“Life is much more like a river

than a book,” I read for your

eulogy, 

And deeply weep.

The Toothless Woman

“--39--”

The toothless woman

peers into the lens

grimacing, growling

putting on a face

designed by another:

plastic form, rubbarized mask.

“Glads ta get ta Noh U”

The photographer stoops,

placing another stem of

gladiolus in the vase.

Framed by trumpets,

an entablature of fauna

and redwood flooring

the toothless woman

howls with rage,

eyes rolling, tongue lashing, 

billowing cheeks, snort froth.

     --Take --

The Watertumbless of Words

(thoughts on Lauren Camp)

I read her words.

Like shiny stones they 

tumble from the page.

The Watertumbless of words,

she intrigues me

pulls me in,

washing along with her thoughts

and concepts that whirl

about my mind’s eye.

I am lifted from my chair,

set free to blow about a

universe of possibilities.

She is the maestro

and my intellect --

her instrument of choice.

Pavement Holds No Image

White Hair.

I remember white hair:
sublime
mixed with blonde
A strand
or two of black
but mostly white.

Legs.

I remember no legs:
a form
lithe & lilting
a quiver
singing without speaking.
His lips never moved.

Rocks are not always
what they seem.
They grow with the years.

I remember that man.
How he sat in that chair
torn blanket 'round a form
Hair spiky and short.

I remember a dog
pulling that chair
Laughter, disturbing
    or
Laying by his side.

"They'll take that dog from him,"
her words rang
"He has to fit in
or become a fool
in a wheelchair."

"Old age in a god
    is tough and greene."
I am no god,
The stone said
though once Phoebus seemed
to shine through me.

Eyes to the ground
eyes of a stone
pavement holds no image
only the rain.

Fat Ass Mama

Whenever I saw it
I thought of fat ass mama
an' how she useta wauk
down the street.
Red hair shinin'
in the aftanoon sun,
broad hips swingin'
gently movin'
              right
then left
left
     then right.

That's what I thought of
when I saw that ole bus,
sittin' on the hillside
all covered in rust:
fat ass mama
that ole big bottom gal
an' i'd laugh
an' i'd wonda

just wonda

where she's waukin' now.

You see, it was somehow proper in proportion
and pleasing to the eye, yet obtrusive and
unsightly -- kinda like a fat lady's butt.

Song For A Father

Snowgeese on a pale evening sky
Silhouettes against a full harvest moon.
I remember the first time I saw them,
the smell of woodsmoke, a patch of red
and you,
pointing them out to me, explaining what they were.
You seemed to have the answers to
everything in those days.

Gifts From A Mother

I gave you drawings, poems
and wild strawberries picked with tiny
fingers from a neighbor's field.

You gave me life,
Laid the foundation for a future,
and where there to lift me when I faltered.

I thrived in the radiance of your smile,
matured in the stern insistence of your displeasure.

You faced the disdain of a teenager,
waiting for the moment of maturity
when a grown woman would realize
your value.

You gave me gifts I can never repay,
gave me love I can only strive to match.
You are my mother, my dearest friend,
and I have the fortune to be your daughter.