Seaside on a Boulder Bench

This place is new and will not stay
It’s changed a bit since yesterday
These rocks that formed by energy bound
Will move on soon without a sound
Then change again and be set free
Crossing space eternally.
~
Can you straddle the unseen line?
Where edges meet but undefined
This piece of “real” so well-conceived
Will trick the eye and so deceive.
I ponder both the there and then
I hope to know, but not sure when.

The Day After (Coming of Age)

Eyeing the helium balloons with puckered skin that drift at half mast

And the black bags of garbage which have erupted onto the ground and those

Half-Empty brew bottles that are being eyed by marauding yellow-jackets

A thought occurs

-Someone left the cake out in the rain-

An unknown dog meanders through making meaning of secret scents

And within earshot the sound of a truck backing, dolefully punctuates

The morning heat driven haze

Issuing a one note requiem

The flowers have gone south and are failing to flourish

Well on their way to the compost bin

Which stinks with the traces of a midnight skunk.

The beds lays damp with twisted sheets

Pleading for a reunion, as

Unsuccessful you find only the cap

To the aspirin bottle.

The cushion to an upright chair which serves as your temporary jester’s throne

Dampens and tattoos your slouching backside

As well as your outlook on this day

But only partially;

You are pondering:

Who’s car that is parked on the grass?

Hoping

There will be no posted videos…

And vaguely considering

How I can do it again,

While wondering

If it is worth it?

Bill of Goods

It’s time once again to scramble among the pieces
Picking through pot shards
Looking to connect the cracks
And shockingly discover
What?!
That some black go on white
Some straight belong with the curved
Some surprise in every pack.
There is no profit in this business
Of monkeying around
Clowning around
Hanging around.
No.
Instead you pay.
It’s a kind of layaway…
And then one fine day you make your last payment
Ah
And snooze headed realize
This doesn’t look anything like the picture
It’s a bill of goods  
This isn’t what I ordered!
But
Of course it is.  

Morning View

This is the view that has been so selected,
Not of the mountain or out to the sea, no…
This morning while seated in the rocking chair
The screen door frames in dark wood hues
An olive swath of rain flecked grass
And deeper still are bosomed trees cutting toward the cloud stacked-sky
Heaped in piles and drifts upon the sallow blue
That has failed so far to shake the morning haze.
And standing watch just nearby
Tall seed-headed grasses are arching low
As if to graze upon their own sweet richness,
While ladder-backed ferns shuffle and sway
Waiting impatiently for their turn,
Lingering damply in this milling crowd,
Waiting for the sun.

What We Need Is Protection

What we need is protection,
A roof without a drip
And walls that keep us leeward
Of wind that throws up sand and snow,
A canvas wall or stone and mortal,
A safeguard against the onslaught
That turns some days from kind and protecting
Into torments of the mind and flesh.

We need love.
The kind that build a safe-house
And respite,
One that offers a smile bowl
Of nurture
And words that build strong
Foundations
Where we sing softly to ourselves,
Then out loud to the universe
Our sweet song,
And where we dance
The sway and shuffle
That our feet have always know.

Some must come from me
Part to give and part to stay
And some must come from you
A helpful hand that sees us through.

To Keep My Head from Flying Off

Once I was told that I have powerful neck muscles
And while I briefly wandered in my delusory grandeur,
I was gently reminded that those steel-cables of bones and sinew
Connecting my ass-self to my real-self, up there,
In my right mind, here in my western world,
Were there because they were exercised
Daily, in isometric desperation
To keep my head from flying off
Into the air,
Like some slingshot
Like a hot air balloon.
This head, cooked full of vapor and tattered dreams,
Non-sense and half sense
Mostly worthy of mild mockery,
Mostly runs that same old cassette
That plays and plays in the truck
Because breathless, I cannot depress the reject button,
Because I cannot seem to get ahead
And leave the back then or maybe when
Somewhere, softly abandoned by
The side of this bumpy road.