On the Burden of Flowering
Even the cactus wren
surrenders itself
to the task,
though it rarely listens
to my voice. How do clouds
blossom day to day
and leave so little
behind? The bookless shelf
begs to be filled, but instead
I watch the morning age
as the sun arcs higher.
Yesterday you said
the mint marigold
was dying. Today it
stands tall. Yellowing.
The Bitter Celebrates
Mention gateways and mythologies
and I see openings to paths
better left unseen. No choice is
choice,
but preparation leads us astray as well.
Take this bitter leaf.
Call it arugula.
Call it rocket.
Call it colewort or weed.
Dress it with oil and vinegar,
with garlic and lemon.
Add tomato, salt.
Though you try to conceal it,
the bitterness remains.
But back to gates and myths. Do they truly
lead us out, or do we
circle back, returning
to the same endings
again
and again.
Remove the snake, rodents return.
Seal the hole.
Take this leaf.
Voice those words.
Close that door.
“The Bitter Celebrates” first appeared in Amethyst Review in December 2018.
My poem “Every Drop” appears in the latest edition of Tiny Seed Literary Journal. Many thanks to Emily Cayer and the Tiny Seed editorial staff for publishing this piece.
If You Drop Leaves
If you drop leaves when she walks by,
does that signify grief for those
cut down early,
or merely drought?
How easily we abandon and forget.
Yet a whiff of lemon verbena or the light
bouncing from a passing Ford
can call them back,
tiny sorrows ratcheted in sequence
above the cracked well casing
but below the shingles
and near the dwindling shade
tracing its outline on the lawn.
And what do you whisper
alone at night within sight
of sawn and stacked siblings?
Do you suffer anger by way
of deadfall or absorption,
bark grown around and concealing
a penetrating nail, never shedding
tears, never sharing one moment
with another. Offered condolences,
what might you say? Pain earns no
entrance. Remit yourselves.
* * *
“If You Drop Leaves” was published at Bad Pony in November 2017. Many thanks to editor Emily Corwin for taking this piece.
My poems “Self-Portrait as Never” and “The Real Question” are live at After the Pause. I’m grateful to editor Michael Prihoda for accepting these pieces.
Life among the Prickly Pear
Rain’s twofold curse: not enough
too much. Still, I take comfort
even among the thorns.
There is much to like here.
Its moonlight flowers.
Paddles fried with minced garlic.
Wren’s jubilant shriek.
The fruit’s red nectar.
I wake to distant screech owls
purring their desires on separate
slopes. Late spring, storms looming.
I close my eyes and the creek rises.
* * *
A draft of this first appeared here in June 2015, and I posted this version in May 2016. I’ve had to deal with a flooded creek recently…
In the meantime, two of my guitar heroes:
Water Witching, We Hear
The rattle of stalks
along dirt roads,
whispery days
sifting through
parched
light,
you say
patience, my
friend, and again,
patience.
* * *
“Water Witching, We Hear” first appeared on the blog in April 2017.
Door Haibun
The glass remains unchanged but what I see through it differs moment by moment. This door is truly of a port in air; I observe these shifting worlds, their translucent seconds ever ticking. Nothing rests – the Texas mountain laurel’s blossoms fade and flutter to the ground while the wind weaves intricate patterns through its branches. Rogue onion sprouts scatter throughout this small section of yard, and a squirrel scampers along the cedar pickets. Light slants through a hole in the clouds. A hummingbird buzzes by. Even the earth moves, and five minutes ago rain tapped out an inconsistent tune on my metal roof. I lift the shakuhachi to my lips, and exhaling, enter the day.
three dogs yapping
announce spring’s arrival
oh, sweet music!
“Door Haibun” first appeared here in April 2018.
The Garden
But what of this notion
of the romantic?
It rained last night.
I could smell it
before it fell,
each drop a perfect
sphere until the final
moment. This
is fact, impractical but
lovely for its truth.
* * *
Initially posted here in January of 2014, the poem was published many years ago (30?) as a poetry postcard offered by the literary journal Amelia. I admit to being wrong about the shape of raindrops. But hey, they start out spherical…
A Step Closer
The difference in here
and there, a step closer to infinity
swallowing the clover and wild onion.
Not knowing, you shift purpose to intent.
Following the sun,
the flower sips light all day,
pausing only when I walk between.
“A Step Closer” was published in Sleet Magazine in August 2018. I am grateful to editor Susan Solomon for taking this piece.
O at the Edges 