“Road Trip
(The Miracle of Grass)”
We streamlined south to north and spring’s new breath
infused my lungs with the crisp, blossomed air.
That creeping, leafy smell had filled my breast,
and it was good. We drove so free of care
in reckless, silver streaks past things that are
and were the greats, the lifebloods! Road-veins pulsed
and pulled me through the country. I felt pulled
by sights of shining, rooted towers, shot
from concrete soils, ever upward grown.
The open road had beckoned me with shouts,
with rolling hills. The blessed, sun-lit ground
was drenched in lighted greens, that flowed like gowns
in loosened form. It sped me past the barns
with hallowed wooden frames! The silos, burnt
with spectrumed glints and ancient termite blaze,
were brimful with a seeping violet glow
(the royal shade the sunset sometimes bleeds
before she dies). I wondered what they grew
when sweat drops watered earth, when time was slow
and friendly, not a thing to keep, to fight,
or fear. The golden annuals shook in fright.
The wind blew harder, harder. Barnyard reds
came crashing down to earth. The tumbling bits
collected there, and nature’s ancient rites
then salvaged new from old. Invoke the buds!
Beyond the scrolls, a Chinese garden sits
in silence. The City’s subway pumps the sounds
of old and new—the churning in the seed
“A Sunday Rain”
Blanket-rain fell late that afternoon.
My window drummed and clashed with heavy, speeding
beads that beat with pitter-patter. Strewn
about the room, those dearest friends lay sleeping.
Heaps of quilted cloth lay heaving, rain’s
rhythmic tap was pulsing through our veins.
Softly lit and warmly dressed, the room
could lull to sleep the loudest beast, and aimed
to do just that. Like lions who’ve assumed
their reign we lounged about there, unalarmed,
yawning. We, the kings of concrete jungles,
merely longed to lie in blanket-bundles.
“Ice Storm in January”
In dead of winter
black skeletal trees are embalmed in frozen bliss and
in the off-season
I run through ice carnivals
while the fields are filled with light.
Showered sparks splinter
in quivering winds. These bones are motionless, as eyes,
now void of reason,
are flooded with shined slivers.
I am dizzy wonderful.
“Upon Receiving My Sight”
Blackness all around,
I am with one dreamless sleep hurled into brilliant existence.
My eyes, having birthed Helius,
awe my soul with visions of spectral explosions,
ever shifting, shaping, expanding, and rocking.
I am drunk with sight.
From “here to here” is no longer,
but rather is “here to there.”
My slippery blackness is creeping, accompanying sweet and fleshy pinks.
I am the artist.
A juicy, sun-shaded sphere floats on my arm.
I have grasped it. I eat as I have in times past,
but I am no longer four! I am five and I am learning.
I am a sane man in an insane, Technicolor world.
“The Zoo”
an alligator
Gucci purse accessory
stares at his cousin
“haiku #1″
Globular women–
I am uncomfortable
in canyoned bus seats.
“haiku #2″
Liquor
nighttime comfort
in the form of green pills
bringing fluffy, cotton ball sheep.
Sweet dreams.
“haiku #3″
Heroes
from past lifetimes
hang on cornered paper.
Haunting. Guiding. Centered on walls.
Well placed.
“A creek’s insight into the sovereignty of God”
When walking on a mossy trail I came upon a creek
Where once had lived a multitude of things both great and meek.
Where animals and plants of green grew fast and quickly up,
And when had thirst they all drew near to lap and soon fill up.
The creek had been the king of all the other creeks around,
And even when the rain had fell and landed on the ground,
Each drop would grant him dignity and ask if they could stay.
Obligingly, he answered yes inviting them to play.
But then one day the great big creek said “No” to all the rain,
‘I’ve had enough of being nice, I’m feeling rather drained.”
So the skies receded and the creek began to dry.
“I rather like to feel alone, and soon I hope to die.”
And now I stand, a passerby and witness to the loss
Of what was once a wonder, now reduced to stones and moss.
The question that remains of course in my mind and in yours
Is, “When the water disappears has nature taken course?
Or rather has the creek withdrawn and chosen to die out?
Can creeks control their destinies and choose themselves to drain?
I say no, for after all they can’t control the rain.”
