the wind shifts and
the tree frogs
are talking
to each other
warning of storm
and change
in a musical portent
of danger
i sit in this
spot
listening
shooters shooting
down at the gun club
neighbors mowing
fast-growing lawns
robins singing songs
of babies and love
youngsters driving by
too fast
sounds blowing by
on a breeze
bent on taking
and
the tree frogs
are talking
to each other
.
.
.
in a brief dawn moment
when i remembered
not to forget
to look down
to notice
three favorite flowers
fritillaria
(a poem in a name)
(a poem of a flower)
and i smiled
all day
.
.
.
there are so many things i cannot reach
so many miracles behind glass and
roses i’ll never cultivate
and all these days filled with bugs
and better thans and never enoughs
there is always that sky
through the tall short-lived poplars
growing faster than posterity
there is always a kitten
causing trouble in a field
of grey mice
there is always hope and
disappointment
always love
(that cliche of a word
even poets
can’t define)
and this one
grape hyacinth
growing stubborn
along the road
refusing to care
if i notice
.
.
.
mirror-moon and barely broken
downward dog and faintly spoken
i am hollow
i am raw
i am forgotten
i am refusal and predication
spitting out bitters
and smiling at wind-loose shutters
this is age and
this is mo(u)rning
and the narcissistic
narcissus
will never reveal
the long-etched key
to revival
.
.
.
there’s an oak tree
in the brush line
by the driveway
with a branch
that’s been hanging
since the ice storm
of 1991
i remember my sadness
at the damage of trees
i remember being young
and appalled
at life’s cruelty
i remember how
the basement flooded and
the lack of electricity
i remember that my parents
came to stay
it’s been 26 years
and that branch
is still hanging
and i wish i remembered
how to cling with tenacity
to a tree still growing
through bad storm
.
.
.
they said youth was the currency
and beauty the price
but we knew better
on the streets
of anarchy
where blossom
was never
as fragile
as ego
and thorn
was the tally
of vice
.
.
.
prom dress pretty
and filled
with fresh hope
the irony
of this tall vase of tulips
primp-sitting
all bare and innocent
amidst kitchen-table clutter
and the convoluted
detritus
of a too-busy week
but these are my days
and no matter how messy
there are always flowers
sometimes fresh
sometimes dying
sometimes too long
past gone
for shame’s sake
always
flowers
always a smile
on a short-sheet friday
and life’s
funny bone
antics
silk purse
sow’s ear
and all that
.
.
.
i live
in the land
of farms
people from
cities
don’t understand
what that
means
(i learned this
from a former
city dweller)
in my world
there is
space
.
.
.
wide field
deep sky
lone tree
standing tall
to guard
corn
wheat
or soy
in the
evening
driving
home
a lone car
on the road
in the
distance
becomes
beacon
for a
journey
never
traveled
.
.
.
i spent a year
listening
to grief and
revelation
hope and
degradation
i lost my voice
in the sound
of life
moving on
or death
pounding hooves
down fresh
black pavement
i’m here
now
on the
other side
of something
listening
again
to storm
and blossom
holding stories
in a heart
scarred from
blade
.
.
.
the face of truth
is marked
by shadow
you and i
think
we know better
but symbol
is all
that’s
necessary
in a world
molded by
glyph
we’re sure
we invented
shorthand
clever acronym
monument
but
we’re going
backward
in a world
losing time
carving lives
from bits
and pixels
and love
from empty
promises
filtered
imagination
so little
left
to recognize
.
.
.
