Tuesday, February 19, 2008

A Bawdy Tide

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.

Sunday, February 17, 2008

Threading Light

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.

Wednesday, February 13, 2008

Aqualine - 2

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

Sunday, February 10, 2008

Moons Rimmed in Walnuts

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 rain. Every mother knows
that years unfurl faster than a vanishing shoreline and hungry babies cry.
They expect warm moons rimmed in walnuts, she knows the day is more serpentine.

With bumps so certain and opportunity taking flight, what handy script
can rescue us from a lemming race to the river; where is our raft upon the sea?
Stack your babies tightly; it allays their fears about the corduroy road ahead.
They expect warm moons rimmed in walnuts, you know the day is more serpentine.

Saturday, February 9, 2008

The Fishwife's Chair

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 creaks in hope that maybe tomorrow
he'll think to remember the gorilla glue.