What the Muses Leave Behind

Teach me half the gladness That thy brain must know - Percy B. Shelley   Valentine thunder shakes logs, wakes frogs; they rise to rim a brimming pond. Be aroused, bellow the teeny beasties; there’s tadpoles to make before dawn. Crickets appear, their imperative clear rub legs, lay eggs, avoid birdies. Wood thrush returns from Panama jungles, odyssey skims the canopies. Song soaks the air in sponges around them; finding lungs in belly and skin. When green tides surge across umber fields, June arrives awash in new kin.

As a bone crescent drops into dusk bandy leg peepers climb with the sap and jet streams thread light with thunder. Be aroused, bellow the beasties, in serenades whooshing like waves as a bone crescent drops into dusk. Owls and bugs swell the ruckus, weaving their cacophony into night’s cloth and jet streams thread light with thunder. In bedlam so blatant, this spring tonic wheedles even the woodcock to cheep as a bone crescent drops into dusk. Sound soaks the air, and we must inhale with ears, belly, skin - must exhale in jet streams threading light with thunder. Now a green tide carries us to May, breaks over June awash in new fruit, out of crescents dropping into dusk and dreams threading light with thunder.

Be as water quicksilver thin magic carpet pioneer dispersing up, up and away Be as water crystal lattice intertwined elbow to elbow willow now basket, now boat Be as water brimming edge courageous surrender five hundred feet headlong in full song

Stack your babies tightly; it allays their fears about the corduroy road ahead. Bumps are certain, so be adamant about how you uncoil the hour. They expect warm moons rimmed in walnuts, you know the day is more serpentine. The duty of family is to handle life like a vintage harvest; days brim with opportunity often missed, but always kindled – keep the coal alive. Stack your babies tightly; it allays their fears about the corduroy road ahead. The bounty of brave parents, what fills sparse blue nights, and brightens pinched faces is the picnic of stories after a lean meal. How papa unfolds each mind behind blue eyes. They expect warm moons rimmed in walnuts, he knows the day is more serpentine. If only we had centuries to grow a family, like the Oregon Coast; trusting the liquid space between strong siblings, and danger just a splashing surf. Stack your babies tightly; it allays their fears about the corduroy road ahead. But the sky in not a tin roof and fog lets in the rai...

He loves the chair that groans, loves how it carps like a fishwife. At five thirty he settles onto its cracked leather pad, sagging from family abundance; every joint rickshaw shaky still holds legs hickory strong. One day, he thinks, gorilla glue to the rescue; shore up this damn thing. The chair, a relic of family opinion, has cradled more than bottoms and legs. It’s throned vituperative lumps red faced and hissing at Murrow reporting tanks in Warsaw, at Cronkite questioning the TET, at Mandela’s climb to president. Wonders why blood in Haditha matters. This chair is tired. It creaks because it's full and worn. Patina coats its bony arms, oiled mocha with worry, hands bearing up under the news. It knows what complains hangs around – sturdy as a dirge. What complains settles deeper like the bitter edge of sweet. It creaks to remind him - even the sturdiest welcome empty moments when thoughts settle like dust; when silence rescues frantic frays to fix the world. And it creak...