Drivin' and Cryin'

She said she wants to roll with the top down
she said she wants to drink the wind
she wants to feel her skin again.

She got her hand out the window
trying to catch the night
trying to catch the light.

She's drivin' and cryin'
And I'm wondering why?

She said "You know its been a long summer…
and its been real dry."
It was hard to swallow
I caught it in the corner of her eye...
this was our first goodbye.

She's drivin' and cryin'
and I think I know why.
'Cause our four-leafed clover
is over-
our thick October
is over.

I'm still wishing upon your star
playing your number wherever you are.
I'm still trying to catch the lights for you
fillin' up a jar for whenever you're passing through.
I'm still hoping to feel your skin again
but I never learned
how you drink the wind-
how you drink the wind-
how you drink the wind.

Hear it here

Aden

A pirate now, and forever.
Fresh yet familiar
sails on my horizon
seen countless times in the calm
this day
ripe
for the taking
slaking
give rise to wildness
escaping
from bondage forced
by the latest
largess and exile.

Fancy this boarding
and the swinging of ropes
and the spoils and the fire and the fairest
of hostage, of heroine, of heated
decision
forged
in ancient kiln.

You’ll walk it
this plank
at the point of this sword
choose cutlass
or crevasse
of Neptune.
Bound, you will fall
Where I’ll catch you
enthralled
and the sinking will
salt old sails.

The End of November

Draw-
as in draw your guns
as in a last stand
desperado
pistolero
gunfight
high noon.

Draw.
Let me have 'em
both barrels
slugs or sabots,
best shot.
Eye-ballin's over.
Long time comin'.
Saloon's closed.
Girls gone up.

Tumbleweed, tumbleweed
balls blow by.
Dusty.
Dirty.
Draw.

Nordic

rose hips like cherries
powdered milk snow white landscape
punctuated red

herringbone pattern
perpetual gliding slopes
crystallized breathing

Soft Confetti

Momentary euphoria
aspens
birch
oak and beech
letting go
soft confetti
silently
undressing without pretense
because they must.

They will stand, naked.

Can't catch them anymore
or keep them off my floor
resigned to their piling up
at my feet
primary colors shouting
the end
while we exit the garden
aware of our nakedness
and covering ourselves
with leaves.

Appears in Festival of the Trees #30.

Blind Love- A Haiku Trio

hovering above
breasts exposed and glittering
the hush of wing beats

swinging precision
blinking eyes wide behind beads
more than drops raining

upsetting the dawn
dreams reduced to possession
bittersweet having

Sockeye

A dimpled swirl breaks the placidity
of the elbow of the stream
where the tumult and the tempest
the temptation and turbulence
find rest and repose
in the bosom of the meme.

Deep want.
Focused foray
into heaving
into having
into
rhythmic
pulse
reach
haul
lure.

Take.
Taken the fly
swallowed the bait
the swirl reemerges
as a splashing
as a thrashing
red gills
like red rubies
pumping
darkening
in the throes of living
dying
for a hunger.

Hook jawed
played out
hard fought
tailed and
brought
into possession,
the crimson flame dims
and its embers fade
by the moment.

You've had it.
It was reddest in the having
in the taking.
Less vivid now in the had and took
harpooned
by a barbless hook.

Antipathy

She is purging now
reaching past the experiments
the exclamation
points
punctuation
temporary ecstasy
arching
aching
antipathy
followed too quickly
by a reality
that is too lonely
and too far
from Light.

pressing ever northward
aurora borealis
obscured by birch smoke

Skips

And so it goes.
Endless obscurity--
the path to imperceptible infidelity.
And wanting...junkie wanting.
Conundrum.
Or, if this is too close
at too particular a moment,
I may laugh
and shrug
and say "art, art, art."

Except that I have
memories,
and olfactory imprints,
and the skips
of older graceful records.

hornets on apples
cider and goldenrod
in fields our nostrils flare

woven in

Bourbon at midnight
Fish net and a slide trombone
New Orleans full moon

Antique Horns

Painfully aware
of the loss of the bloom.
Bewildered, beware
the size of the room
and a sneaking suspicion
about the price of my stock
and my tenuous position
as a decaying dock
where less ships will moor
less cargo be stored
fewer trips will be taken
the decks ignored
and the price of a cruise
slips out of reach
where there's nothing familiar
at the bar or the beach
but the smell of an old dollar bill...

I will arrive
grown old
my sleek yacht sold
and replaced with
planks
and oars.

I have arrived
as old
still no one's cuckold
and replaced with
pranks
and boors.

Resurrection Fern

Minotaur

Confused the calf could not comprehend
the commotion about his fate,
failed acquiescence
attention and affection,
gilded brutish
bifurcated state.

Released from the shackles
of heavy hammered gold
found his calling
rambling
wandering
mazes
broke
but freely bold.

She wouldn't know what to say
poor Pasiphaë
if she knew the primitive power
of must and mimicry.

Ophelia not withstanding,
smoke and mirrors and heavy sanding
hand holding
and hand wringing
will not a love song make.

The frost and second guessing
plans laid late and false caressing
tacit permission
and undressing
further drive the stake.

So the labyrinth resounds
and beckons still
Stockholm syndrome stirs and fills
the void called hearth
or heart
or home
and the beast will find its rest
among the walls he knows
alone
best.

dews first drops
a fiddlehead fantasy
summer's dying breath

Steeple

Awakened daily by crows
feeding
their avarice
on my lambs.

In steeples
starlings
find refuge
and avoid the perils
and plights
of illegal aliens
and interlocutors.

The bells are silenced
ordinances of peace
for whom?