fleeting glimpses
absent, coming, going
a few moments more

ball dresses falling
float into heaps on the floor
disrobing Autumn

The Spoils of Silently Watching

Arising before dawn in ritual pursuit
aware of austerity, sharp, acute
a chill that has settled
and defines for a time
the spoils of silently watching.

As the hoary frost on crimson leaves
succumbs to the center,
succumbs to the sun
as ice becomes rain
and the dew is undone
and the bluest of blue
frames vivid prisms spun
of the thread of a love
fleetingly grasped
desperately held
and quickly lapsed
into seeking again
into hoping for when
that moment will lend
less furtively.

Retiring at dusk from the ritual pursuit
aware of austerity, dulled but astute
exhaustion has settled
and defines for a time
the spoils of silently watching.

The moment I said it

Chasse

Sleeping, sluggish, a dormant desire

is drawn from the dog days of summer-

as the front is unfolded

the summer defrocked

I return from a lazy warm slumber.

And the creak of the hasp

and the shake of the aspen

spark dreams of October fire.

And the velvet glance

and the cyclic dance

an alluring chance to conspire.

Rising, alert, an ancient urge

springs forth from a change in the weather

it will not relent

breathing deeply the scent

of the chase and the blood stained tether.

Night swimming

Night swimming
and I am towing
a boat.
Night swimming
and I am pulling
a rope.
Hauling
hauling
hauling
a hope.

I am kicking
I am paddling
I lose myself in the darkness
feigning calm
for the hopes
of the passengers
on the boat.

We are far from the island
far from our shores
there are hours
and fathoms
and whole dreams
to go.

I hear them singing
hear them chanting
"we are the pirates
who don't do anything"
and I choke at the irony
and on warm weedy water
and I swim
with a rope
and a boat.

Becalmed.
She died.
Dead in the water.
I can stop swimming
by entering the boat.
But the boat is not
where the boat is to be
so is less useful
to the destination
less desirable to me.

And they're in.
And I'm out.
and they're chanting
and I shout
"an hour or so more"
as the dawn takes its form
and the skin on my feet
is blistered and worn
from fins and conveyances
to overcome forms
of the body, resistance
and I have been here for years
night swimming
with a boat
and a rope.

I'm in here

dry shrinking soils

clusters collapse into cracks

drought in the vineyard

beguiling allure

shameless in too short summers

Moccasin flower

I hear your echo.

Awaiting your next preening call

I lie motionless.

Lioness, Lioness

Lioness, lioness bring all to swift right

lioness, lioness strike surely tonight.

And you

have

crumbled

acquiesced

caved in

to triage traps

let down the furling freedoms

and retreated with taps

where the trick

is to try

not to look

like a spy

or a trite

little trollop

or tramp.

And the message

is garbled

by gambit

or goad.

And the cypher

is cracked

with camp

or code.

And if only the comments

and the deft smirks and nods

could escape the shake-downs

and stamps and jihads...

Frisked, frowning, fucked by the scrutinous

followed, failed, felled by the mutinous

tickers, talkers, tellers of truth

rickety, crotchety, stealers of youth

who insist on a sin and a stain on your virtue

for writing and writhing in stills that won't hurt you

in springs and in flings and in rings like a hearse

hewn in hackneyed hickory shag verse.

Wigwam, a womb, a warm place pleading psalm

where a body lies still to be christened, embalmed...

internment I wait, and wait, for a tourniquet

reeling, risking, rollicking, riveted.

Please stop the bleeding and tell me its you

please stop the hiding and tell me what's true.

Lioness, lioness bring all to swift right

lioness, lioness strike surely tonight.

yield and embrace

lilacs like love-making

intoxicating

40 & counting

The chorus, the chorus
and the pregnant air
brings me back to tall places
to a promenade bare
of promise or purpose
or pretense or price
or penny royal tea
or pixies enticed
by the prospect of plucking
fireflies from ice
or possibilities of kissing
the rune-stone twice
but full, so full
of a flickering hope
that a breeze will blow
you to our elope
our elixir
the fixtures
of pagan ropes
that bind and bind
and forbids a Pope
from fashioning edicts
and obstructing the twine
from tying the unions
too long let unwind
unwound, unwooed
let slip down a slope
where the best to be done
is stack memories to grope
but we age and wither
and the time passes by
and we know, but vaguely
that the hour is nigh
for a fleeting duvet
for a last foray
for one more flicker
for the bats to obey
to the glades of our glories
to the desire of the day
yet we hide, as imprisoned
better angels at bay
and the question lingers
will we be once again
can we see once again
how to taste what has been?

Iceblink Luck

liquid crimson

embers emboldened by winds

leave their marks within

Escaped Bowerbirds

the end of a bloodline

lost to apathy.

Fantastique

Wanning gibbous

but still full of fantastique

in the face of the impossible.

under

Under tall palms

in a thirsty parched place

held the last drops of light

between my fingers and my face

in the valley of the sun

a vision undone

held only once

held only once

held only once.

Under the red sandstone

I embraced the moving light

the roving gaze of God

the same as all nights

but different

moment

by moment

by moment.

Under the water

the sounds became one

the souls are shattered

to rejoin and become one

and they cry in unison

for the sun

for the sun.

And in our own sorrow

and between our own pains

we breathe in and breathe out

and breathe in once again

and hold it

and hold it

like we'll hold only once.

Hold it

and hold it

we live only once.

Happy Valentines Day

Successional

You want light.

You want it more than most...

fight for it and spite

your consort and your host.

Increasing your fitness

while growing white and mossy,

defeat your only witness

while you become more glossy

and the moons appear and disappear

in a steady march towards mold

and we become a memory

successional, and old.

True Light

True light.

What is out there is preferable-

what comes through is filtered.

Out there or in here?

Trapped.

Shells

Listening

a Harrier hunts for his meal

in the silence.

Losing Heather*

If I knew t'would soon be raining

I would have carried an umbrella.

Had I been told about the pain

I'd never have been convinced to tell a

tale

a whispered spell

a wishful veil

a fantasy fell

from filling eyes

beyond the well-

ing up of tears

amidst the sell-

ing of the years

her flowered first

and then the bell

the toll of truth

the tick of time

of virgin youth

of virgin mine

of sweet vermouth

of sour wine

of bitter truth

of sowing seeds

amidst the pines

of taking leave

of the divine

and naivete

about the weather

is no excuse

for losing heather*.

*Heather’s scientific name, “Calluna vulgaris,” comes from the Greek “Kallune,” meaning “to clean or brush,” and the Latin “vulgaris,” meaning “common,” as heather twigs were once used for making brooms. Native to Ireland, Scotland, Scandinavia, Russia and North America, heather branches are also said to have been used to make baskets, rope, bedding, as thatch for roofs and even to flavor beer or tea. Symbolizing admiration and good luck, heather is also believed to have protective powers. The ancient Celts recognized it served as a great cleansing agent, breaking up blockages found in the body. Interestingly, brooms were most popularly made by the Celts with heather, another symbol of clearing, cleansing and manifesting purity. Perhaps these associations with purity made it a symbol of promise and good luck in the Highlands. Indeed, no Highland bride would walk in her joining (wedding) ceremony with out a bit of white heather in her bouquet or hair adornment. The custom still lingers today. What's more, not only were the Celts clever herbalists, they were also genius at mead making. Heather was a prize for meads (during a time before hops was recognized for beer making). When properly rendered, it made a heady, aromatic blend suitable for splendid nights of merry making. Here enters the symbolism of the heather dealing with romance, intoxication and attraction. Heather mead was some powerful stuff.

LESSON OF THE HEATHER - from The Wisdom of Trees by Jane Gifford

Heather is a symbol of passionate love, of sacrifice, and self-control. In the first place, heather represents enthusiasm and sensual pleasure, and the benefits that can be enjoyed from spontaneous self-expression. But within this lust for life and exhilaration lies a deeper lesson of the consequences that may arise out of unbridled passion. The Celts believed that you are always totally responsible and accountable for the outcome of your actions, so you were wise to be sure of your own true nature before totally abandoning yourself to the potent delights of heather ale and the pleasures that it could bring. Unchecked, heather is short-lived and unproductive but if burned yearly to the ground, it re-grows with fresh vigor. The lesson of the heather is that a necessary balance must exist between self-expression and self-control for both to be enjoyable and effective.

always will it be

the universe entire

between you and me