summer nocturn

three gray hags sharing one eye
now camped on the front lawn,
lathered in moonlight
laughing at owls:

i look upon their nakedness
and wonder.

things they must know!

moulting

moon's silver serpent
sheds one skin
then another,
a melancholy:

drifting in summer's
owl-eyed breeze.

murmers

a clash of mountain bikes
resound
              along the ridge trail, and
              two cyclists scream
to nonexistent gods
    the length of their deep descent.

unearthed, an ancient femur,
female,
              and a cache of potsherd,
     unnoticed in the calamity--

sycamore echoes eddy
          on the switch-back rill
          where she birthed,
          nursed           and sang.

ghost in a woman's smile

in dream
ever the vagabond in rough boots
footloose and 30,
ever late for a forgotten
assignation.

drifting.

astronomer

shikasta sat at lawn's edge
talking about the stars clustered above
to the cricket in a wood cage;

there was sagittarius with its hungry hole,
whose concept worried her
just a little.

the cricket whirred and whirred
until it died

fertilizer

old lady chatterly,
tipsy in the afternoon
from dry madeira,
would giggle
at her own naughty humor,
patting her fallen bosom
with glove of white lace:

"my gardener used to say
a rose is too smart
to fart--"

saturday 7/20/13

gray sun covered in rain
etched in charcoal
an opaque atlas
sculpture

out there

such a hush to the rain
earthen-eyed beasts
stand like plaster statues.

french class

phone call in dark of night
slurred velvet voice
sudden moisture on my receiver
a kiss

high school reunion
#3

the evangelist

in silent dream there is no pain
impaled. the blade thrusts
from my mouth  like a shout,
and blossoms
into an olive branch!

observe and report

rolled the garbage down to the road.
frogs silent in the palmetto.
mackerel clouds beneath a sharp half-moon.
on the porch a luna moth,
not pale green, but pale gold
in the lamp light.

woman of the night wind

she drifts in moonlight
upon the wild glade
like a pelagic sea anemone.

her slippers are silver stars!

retirement

the man in a deerstalker cap
sits by the lonesome café window,
counting the hours of his life,

waiting for the blue-plate special,
which is never served
on a blue plate.

at saint patrick's

red nails of beeswax,
their heads scented with aloe
& myrrh,
                   numbered seven,
along the spine of the bright
paschal candle.
                           
seven terrible wounds.

once in holy confession
nine-year-old stephen
told father ambrose
that the stations of the cross
      (the entire passion, actually)
             gave him nightmares.

keats had his critics

bald scholars say by moonlight
red is black. after
the rain the crimson
crepe myrtle bleeds droplets
of rarest jet.

mab

phantom in black taffeta
silver moons for eyes
she walks

lithe and swank of flank
o'er a minefield of frogs.

new moon in cancer

beyond the moth-light
night-boughs drip yesterday's rain.
midnight illumination: black
as a snuffed candle-wick.

hummingbird tavern

burnt tangerine,
the bloom of our trumpet vine:
a bright canticle to summer!

an indifferent gravity

like the iris
                    of a camera lens
      my star gate opened its portal
      & i fell
                     into the womb
of a great orchid,
                           
               where I could hear
               the beating of its heart.

dark motion

rapscallion moon in a burlap sack,
pompeii's head swings low
like poe's pendulum.

nothing zen here

flame haired ambrose glared at the compost hill
deep in the hickory woods, angry wild boy!
swill and slop in raucous fermentation,
its rich gas could give a blue-bottle fly
vertigo!

jimson talk

candy boy ames had a big brown toe,
a gnarly thing with a big red
Band-Aid,
                   foot propped on a wicker
                   ottoman
where the cooler sat full of lone star.

could play eagle bone whistle
to charm blue
                         armadillos
                         from the tall mesquite.

now, that's a dang lie, son!

night music

crescent moon sings
louder
than cicada!