Meme

To a Child, on the Environment

We are humans.
There will always be
a greater tree than we.

Made Me Think

An unguarded utterance made me think...
made me think of the misery of bunk beds...
childhood, summer camp, military
all lost innocence.

Made me think of the dullness of knives,
of bandages, of blood and the stupor all cause
...and the loss of innocence.

Made me think of medics and mercy
menstruation and mean brothers
meditations on menarche and murder
modernity
maternity
masculinity
myopia
my
innocence.

Black-eyed Susan

She stares away
and smiles
crooked
when the wind blows
laughing at the sun
and running
she's running
running after dandelion snow.

Through the meadow
where the sweet spring spills
down to the sluice
and the old grist mill
beneath the curtains
of the gnarled and wispy willow...

Hand-me-down slipping
over sun-skin-beams
daintily dipping
in the rising stream
Eve is dripping
yet she doesn't let the chill show.

I stay away
and day-dream
drowsy
until the wind blows
dancing with the leaves
and waiting
I'm waiting
waiting for the drifts to grow.

Barefoot breathless
where the willows lean
falling fences
and the river between
swiftly carried
to the edge of the leaping waterflow.

Cashmere clouds
hanging in the air
swirling strands
of angel hair...
Black-eyed Susan
never let your petals go.

Jealous Gringo

Beatrice

Ah! The soothing
of that whispered name-
inaudible, nearly...
yet shrouded in familiarity-
fanning the child-heart.

Yes, the wooing
of that angelic flame-
deliver us, swiftly
from this the darkest night
swaddled in your crimson cloth.

Coursing

Brooch pins for my eyes
bury the cold black hole sun
blind Justice and I
have heard quite enough
and the prophesies cannot
be undone.

“While the widows
go on weeping
wearing ashes
and gnashing
their teeth
the Parties
will prey
on the young.”

They are staying,
they are coursing
the dogs of war unleashed.
She is dwindling
she is dwarfing
Our Lady, art thou impeached?

Phoenix Again

A south wind blowing
stalls the migration and I
long for the Zephyr.

Host Meditation (Breadchewing)

Just a crumb in the food chain
the crust of the loaf
I heard of bread that’s forever
but can you make toast
from a slice of the life
that was broken for me
and is dipped in the vino
or dunked in the tea
that is bitter
and black
and imported from Spain
where the lovers of gold
are the mothers of shame
and if the dough is kneaded
by unclean hands
and the yeast is leavened
in man-made pans
then how is it living
in the alive sense of the word
unless one sees fit
to build a cottage for a curd.

Hallowed

Ode to an Apparition

What deceit I view, nay, venal sorcery
that bears your apparition hither.
What sweet, shy you may appear unto me
quick dares more premonition to wither.
If I could see you truly and through the veil
the moment would only swell further.
If I would feel you move me and pierce the mail
the torment would only strike surer.
Black art that brings you and hastens the vex
to madden and scourge my marrow
back dart on the wing and chasten the hex
to placate and purge thy harrow.

Jalepeno

Ready ripe blush rising skyward
up salsa skin so hot
so smooth that I can
almost feel these podded seeds pulsing
against my palate...
Hurry hurry harvest-
hurry hurry have it
before it frosts
and I miss this florid fruit.

Racey Risque Ringing of the Bards

The 18th edition of the Ringing of the Bards—poetry carnival—has just been unveiled, and it is stellar.

It is being hosted by the six "sexual deviants" of WetPoems© (may not be suitable for the workplace), and only "poems of the naughtiest nature" were considered. The challenge was to "unleash the fiercest pheromones" on the Ringing public, making it "the tastiest ringing to date." Due to the nature of this Ringing, the members of WetPoems tried to be especially accommodating to the participating blogging poets: "We realize that not everyone is ready to acknowledge their inner naughtiness, but we hope that by providing the option to anonymously submit to this ringing we give all of your inner sexuality and sensuality some room to play."

This frenzied orgy of poetry will not disappoint...come one, come all.

Woza

Solace seeking
African nights
have no center...
no crux
crest
or core-
no birth
beginning
middle
or ending
no shift
or swinging door.
Here the she-silk spinning
never comes to end
and strands that halt
the Zeitgeist zipper
graft hangmen’s
Zulu Zen.

So the thunder
insists upon distance
behind tall fences
containing the game
and my lover
Eroica extant
will be tattooed
with my shame.

While the dunes
keep marching westward
to the beat
of the shepherds drum
and the eyes
of Africa
as yet still dancing
while in her mouth
still none.

Duck Blind

cattails and loosestrife
early autumn ritual
floral arrangements

three painted ladies
two dark tiger swallowtails
one shot viceroy

First seen on Hunting Haiku Daily

Landlady

A Hunter's Song

Now in the moon of Mabon
as the harvest and the hunt
draw the man from the hearth
and the warmth of his woman’s
good thighs…

we will see.

The home fires will be lit
and Branta canadensis
searching for maize, wheat, barley or oats
will fall to the siren call
of love or lessened hunger
in fields once thought to be
sanctuary.

The home fires will be lit
and the stag will err
with his velvet horn tattered
in his musty rut
and soon hang
as a pendant
of hubris.

The home fires will be lit
and the drakes will denounce
their mother’s wisdom
in favor of fantasy
sweet nothings
and death
from double reeds
double guns
and breath moistened cocobolo.

The home fires will be lit
and the bruin
in avarice and desperation
will blunder into the brambles
where he’ll know the singing
bowstring too late
with the taste of berries mixing with blood.

We will see
again
the dance of hunted and prey
of ourselves in the fray
and wonder aloud about our fate
as the home fires burn bright
in our absence.