Sunday, November 18, 2007

Burning the brush pile

I waited

After a summer of stories
spreading like wild fire
burning drought
scarring our lawns
parching our lives

I waited for this
long gray day with its
on-again off-again
cold soaking drizzle

this November evening
the neighbors must
think me daft to start fire
in the rain

the primordial spark
then small tasting flame
grows in a tinder hollow
first beating breathing
hungry heart of fire

hunkering down
sitting on heels
shovel handle
staff at hand

willing the fire to live
a human windward shield
my back soaked
the small light playing
in early evening
shadows

sputtering, guttering
twist licking turning
small flames embrace
dry branches dead leaves
sizzle quickly

burning the brush pile
has begun there is no
turning back as there is
no turning back to place
the limbs upon the trees

more drizzle damp fuel
placed upon the rising
pyre steam wood smoke
carried alee by not so
gentle evening breezes

as darkness encroaches
the breadth of now
involved fire lashes out
brighter for the night
a primal circle of light

radiant heat contrasts
the rain soaked side of me
that faces from the flames
chilled through to bone
an unkind balance met

now roaring in a wind
whipped frenzy fly ash
glows dancing
high into clouded
night blinking out

circle light in darkness
alone drawn across ages
of silent sentries standing
face front to warmth
back to nightmares

rising now beating back
light cold rain
this living ravenous
ethereal entity calls
out for greater sacrifice

I will wait
as the brush pile burns

Sunday, September 23, 2007

Did not grow up

His children did not
grow up in his father's
house

He cut his hair short
as he should

He shined his wingtips
as he should

He wore shirt and tie
as he should

He went to work
Sundays to church

He marched.



His children did not
grow up in his father's
house

You ran away as soon
as you could

You stayed away as long
as you could

You changed the world as much
as you could

You sang the songs
protested the wrongs

You marched.



Our children did not
grow up in our father's
house

They are page space tagging
as they can

They are jam mix ripping
as they can

They are wry cyber sliding
as they can

They run the net
computers alone

They march.

i want to be alone

i want to be alone

lonely and cold.

feel the cold night air seep
under single covers

i have slept out my dreams

damp twice used towel
beneath my feet

i will do laundry today
or tomorrow.

to hear nothing when
the furnace kicks out
no rustling or pitter-pattering
no busy-ness no
fuss

being silent
listening

up and dressed,
packed for the day
leaving this room
closing the door
like a motel room
disappearing
when the door is closed

walking away,
through the lobby
of my own home
hoping not to
bump into
someone I know

i long to hear my own thoughts
without the guilt of
having to steal them
cold dark water runs
turning over tumbling
shy brook trout smiling
two loaves of fresh bread
give them both away and ask
what price the new rose
conical morel
capped elf dancing merrily
he was just right here

Monday, September 17, 2007

cold shoulder morning
winter wrestles throwing fall
sunshine breaks the hold
dawn's darkness threatens
promises of midday rain
sunshine afternoon
geese speaking from flight
dusk migrating to darkness
southern promises
soft cold rain declares
the turn of summer's last song
split oak embers dance

Monday, February 12, 2007

My Father's Dream



I had to learn to see

my father's dream mirror,

to know the flowing

continuum of desire.

Reflected,

the fleeing siren

singing beyond the edge

draws my father's dream

to bittersweet straits.


In his dream mirror

the image reversed

My father's son,

the reflection

of myself,

the being,

the illusion,

locked in mortal

stare,

becoming one.


Rising to youth's fury

I donned the armor

of my father's dream,

picking up his sword

of temper

going forth to slay

the long dead dragons

that lurked specter like

in my father's closet.


O'er the vast ranges

I sought the beasts

that would torment

my father's dreams.



Yet long bleached bones

denied the quest

and scattered scales

bespeak the dragon's

plight.


Here upon the endless

barren plain majestic

borne upon a wing

the last slow spiral

has fell the mighty

dream beast.

Brought to its knees

for the want of fuel

to feed the kindled flame

of passion.


With the last expiring

sulfurous miasmatic rattle

of passing dragon

the armor

of my father's dream

fell away


Where barren lands fall

to the furious seas

I stand naked

alone.

My father's dream

a fading visage

My life illusive

memory

like a dragon

taking wing

though their bones

lay baking

upon some barren

plain.




Sunday, January 28, 2007


early daffodils

renewed by receding snows

thawing ice stream flows


Monday, January 01, 2007

Two Pennies

They threw pennies

At the feet

Of the man

Asleep


When he awoke,

as in a dream

they turned

away


He rose to walk,

leaving them,

in his wake


From a distance

he spoke softly

words carrying

clear

across

silence

“Take up the pennies,

cast down your

Crowns.”


After he spoke,

as in a dream

they turned

away


Fingering tight

draw string pouches

absently counting

gold sovereigns