Pulling Beauty From

The tolerant hairstyle is recentWindow_Reflection
hiding some of her frumpiness
but it does some justice to
this grumpy mean-cold woman
who mumbles distant curses

A gone dry long ago river
smiling she admires herself
in the grocery store window
roughly removing a stray hair
as she approves of the look

With wrinkles like trenches
protecting her facade from war
a visage seen before bleakly
staring back from a gun turret

Waiting for something to move
as if to feed on a life
like a bitter soldier, unaware
as she takes but never gives

The canyon of her soul
echoes the wail of sorrow
the groan of dying tree
but for this one moment
looking back from the glass
she is a smiling touch of beauty

Pulling Beauty From

After the Little Boats

on a creekwas a creek ran behind my house
when I was nine just the thought
excited me to see and play in it
with sticks and boards to race

like boats crossing oceans
if oceans had rocks and ran but
six inches deep or a foot when
rained swarmed over its banks

to run full speed feet tiptoeing
against two or three stones
placed with great care by
a Mother Nature who knew

it was thrilling it was dangerous
it was sky diving across water
it was a raging roller coaster
it was a mad skill not to fall

too often we walked home
our feet squeaking every step
especially after a storm passed
but that was the most fun

Yesterday I found that creek
on Google Maps. The house is a park
and a bridge makes crossing easy
like all things it has changed

The Satellite view did not show
any boys playing along the creek
but closing my eyes I can see them
running along after the little boats

After the Little Boats

Deep Blue

Blue RoseHaving fallen into blue before	 	 
In dreams on good days	 	 
On bad days we have as	 	 
Gently as possible slid on	 	 

Either way the blue was blameless	 	 
Our feelings comfortable, happy	 	 
To be within enthralled in	 	 
The easy placidness of it

	And somehow, somewhere you
	want to scream, screech even
	chalk across slate 
	soul across existence	 	 

Two Indigo Buntings flew	 	 
Over nearby hills, along ridges	 	 
Under a copper red sky	 	 
Settling to form two blue pools		 
Flying with them you grasp	 	 
The unknown where exactly	 	 
Flying through intense clouds	 	 
Where even rainstorms are good

	you are troubling, boiling
	stumbling, almost falling even
	sliding across water
	breathing across living
But it was in the landing	 	 
We mostly treasured	 	 
Asking was it worthy for you	 	 
Or was it merely the	 	

	Seeping into desultory day
Deep Blue

Late Afternoon Clouds

Late Afternoon CloudsIt’s the late afternoon staring
across mountains, through window
seeing your face, your eyes, your hair
shaped within the sunset shadows

of reddish pastel clouds
the shimmer of your hair
in filtered sunlight
tossed by a flirting breeze

Of course it’s not painful
watching you scraping peaks
floating within cloud colors
as if you were still

If I were a pilot I would
want to spend my days flying
through those hair-like clouds
feeling them brush against my plane

but I know they would barely
linger leaving limited traces
in much the same way you remain
only in pale, distant clouds


Late Afternoon Clouds

A Gentle Line

She wondered what the villain left,A gentle line
while laughing only alone
Just? Fair? indeed not.
Signs in the shade, perhaps

She beat at the starless sky
begging for its water back
until the glow of a sullen sunrise
delivered layers of gray to line the sky.

She wanted to hurry by,
ignoring all along the divide,
a gust of sorrow on the roof;
not that she could care a little
not at all a little

teetering with a thin memory
neither quite here nor quite there
imitating a sort of poetry
scurrying across a littered land

It was not at all comfortable
never it was, was it
yet she spoke with her spirit
and was paid in tattered rags

yearning for only a touch of pastel
or a ceaseless drip of soft drizzle
to infuriate the constant toil
inside the next delicate scratch




A Gentle Line