Agape as a starling in June‘s Summer Sun

I could try to 

Write the words you 

Like to arrange 

In such pretty ways. In these dange-

Rously simplified days that I have

(You have 

Too) planned out in such de-

Ranged and ordered misre-

Membering, I remember 

Not to. Not to write them. I’ll offer 

A different picture;  

One where my words are less sure; 

Fragile, frail saffron petals caught 

Up by a gust, and scattered out- 

Ward where no one could

(Would 

You?) put them together. And yet, 

Their tangled feelings for bet-

Ter, and for worse still, 

Never hold me. I will 

Not hold them either in my broken 

Memory’s heart. A starling forming words unspoken.

broken shards

The broken shards,

irregular and clear, 

twinkle the crisp, spring light. 

And bright, it's near. It's dear, 

on the dug earth 

where a sidewalk's hug gave birth 

to an hourglass. They laugh, 

they watch 

their neighbors, scrambling weeds, 

the ungainly, tight buds, catch 

at it, the light. And when  

they reach up into it, 

and to the air, from where sand,  

a lifetime of ago's ,

might have spilled, their thoughts run 

back to the shards, 

and the reflected sun.

Untitled - Acrylic on paper

 So, this is me getting to know the new brushes and paints I purchased recently...

When the dog scratches at sunshine

When the dog scratches at sunshine,
what does she hope to find? Is she,
could she be, after its brightness 
what it might, this lightness, what it could bring
to mind, those thoughtful, or less, things forgot, 
gone far and thought lost. If she brought,
would she bring them, or
a piece of them back, not so much to savor, but 
maybe to reconsider: At what we'd been,
if being was even then, more or less.
And in all of this, had she
missed it, should she miss, and see the way past,
the sign it meant: the glint that pauses
paws ready for, and before, causes that leap ahead.

Alchemy

I've left off.
I've leapt off,
how?
Dreaming me, myself once, now
I dream me another,
one other
than myself. Not
my voice, not
my mien,
not mine.
Around me, not
my friends or loved ones, but
ones loved the same.
And me again
myself, as other. With now,
this now,
being time
or times
when the other is
stranger; When an other is,
how? Other than loved?
There is danger in love, in
loving
the stranger I've become. In
dream, I can
love another, this other than
me. My self, yes
myself yet,
because I am he, or
her, or...
I am loved . And I'm at a time, when?
why, when
I wake, and when I may not be
me,
myself, or another, yet not
not. Not
yet. Yet, no other, and yes
for all
I am, all
again,
as I began.

To possess it

To possess
it, without an es-
specially
sly
grin, poses 
a problem
for them,
normally dull brown,
and sunk down
by bulbous noses
that sniff a tru-
er face in the blue.
And why
not, reflecting, as they should, on the sky?

Have you seen rain drops fall like snow

Have you seen
rain drops
fall like snow,

no weight
to their skips,

zigging and zagging
on the lagging
breezes?

They ease me into this
early day's lazy gray

sadness,
not yet moved
by those early risen
sirens.

Ill winds

The wind's ill
but it blows well
and good. To some
one, no good being
left a great sum when
it wasn't willed. No,
not by a wind, nor
Time, nor the Easterly
ways she hangs about,
and cross, creases her
face to say hi,
then leave it, her
with the wind.

The wisp that was and wasn't

It was
lower, less round, less
deathly pale, and more
imperfect
than the half-moon looming
above it
until it
wasn't, blown
into blue by
an unseen breath

inconsistent, see

Inconsistent, see
I am, just what I told you
and not. Where it went,
I don't know. Where did it go,
the Sympathy? It's not mine,
or not now.
The weight is. The
weight came
fast. Faster than the wait
left, or tried to. Not all
at once. It hopped in
and out like the sparrows
who visit, interchangeably,
inconsistently, wanting
but not daring,
then gone.

The play of histones

Every one
is some(d)
one else's other(s),
added to
their bothers
cares fears and druthers,
another(s) but not other(s)
truly, just a
same(d) one
different(ed) in the play
of histones.

Higher math

Your math
may pattern it, death,
in threes. I count
it, an error, in
the account-
ing

Folk of the future

These formidable folk of the future are
fetched in by the round out of your ears,
the tales you sound of forgotten games
not the fact you came from a pastful same

And there will be no

praise for Folly, Erasmus, from these lips,
or from what I use as lips, the tips
of fingers I've let linger without expertise
on a feeling less feeling than desire to tease
what I can, or they may, from a simple rock.
I found it on the spoiled ground I walk,
alongside hop-scotch squares chalked
to dare jumps from steps I give to the bare
concrete. Its smooth brown whisper
hints at lost red, but it hasn't led me to what
formed it: not what gravity of years; not
the great weight of a wait uncounted; not the slow
or sudden forces that freed it. I don't know
any of it. I'm not as foolish as the French
academic I read who studied a people at length,
and their region others had named. He claimed
to know what makes, or made, them different. The same
I could say for a taco chain and its bravado
at being expert in making flavorless burritos.
I'll boast instead of the plastic bear.
It's clearly grown better at holding air
than the honey leaving it. I also like this rock, and what
matter it's expert in. It's this rock, until it's not.

Trees make a bad choir

The woman, out-of-seasonally in
her winter's attire, fire-red
jacket and woolen cap, snaps
off rounds of sermons. Full-on
leafy, on a late-spring's early
morn, the parked trees stretch and stand
stately in their disbelief.

ouroboros

an
ouroboros
hour devouring
its all. our's to flow
and flower. to borrow
more
ouroboros hours

runon

iwriteivewritmy
runons
thoseothersanother
sadandhappypunctuates
punctuated
idoidid

Soon

What's the use of a fulla love
moon if ya can't swoon a little
at the too soon of it. I will.

lavender and gray

The story of gray and of lavender
is a product of their time together,
of arcing heights, yellows arranged, the lines
of ocean scold, and a bye-going sliver,
and they tell it, this story and their time,
to no one unwilling to hold its shine

still

The still air still carries
a heavy light, wing beats
heavier than the wait
of tires, these tires waiting
to resume their susurrous rush

who tends

who tends the dying sparrow(?)
not the sky
with the many
not the sky
so many to hold

I held distance and it was(.)
light not sad
for the many
not saddened
so many dying