Saturday, July 30, 2011

Before Vacation

On the eve the rustle
of breezes cicadas
drawn out in the light soaked leaves
our house inhabited
I remember
for tomorrow

A birdsong I have not
heard in awhile
although I am sure it has been there all along

A truth I am skirting around
a cat and his noontime nap.

Tuesday, July 26, 2011


If only we were like the daylilies
awakened one summer morning
to sun orange petals
revelling in our being
not needing to show
some floral piece of cleverness.

Sunday, July 24, 2011

At the Window

Within one moment is contained
wholly a tasselled cord swaying
in a dapple of green
shimmering day-lilies
the invisible crickets
never far away
and the moment is gone.

Saturday, July 23, 2011

These Days

These days in August have come
with their layer of crickets
droning forever
in a way that is like silence
of a temporary bereavement.

An overhead fan
whirs like a Calypso in the breeze
while Smokey tempers
my skin with the brine of his warm licks

relieving the days
of wait moving on
as they will
to the returning sound of crickets.

Sunday, July 17, 2011

This Afternoon

Lim dim: my slow blink
mirroring yours
each one fading
into the silence
of late bird calls.

Tuesday, July 12, 2011


Me, you, and the words
bridge a self-perceived chasm
on Cerberus's day off.

Tuesday, July 5, 2011


I come back to dark wood
to the books
and the occasional yield of stray words
returning to the point
that has moved but little
in inches, in words, in states of mind
in the days that are out of time.

Monday, July 4, 2011

A Stray Thought

It is beside the point what I write
when I am propelled
into words, by words
and the idle thought towards perfection.

An Afternoon with Ruth Grotenrath and Schomer Lichtner

Out of your daily
cups and bowls
cows, apples,
a flowering bulb
you create in bold
your lives together.

Violet sunset, paper lantern
luminous in your hands.

Inspired by the exhibit at the MWA

Saturday, July 2, 2011

Eating an Apple

It is not the touch of roundness
nor its supple skin
falling away
in spirals.

No, I expect the familiar
yield of the sweet
and the unavoidable grimace
before I find the core.