Pillowing (after)

Brush away

C lo u ds 

clinging to 

eyelashes that hover 

morning mist-like to a

sleeping valley yet 

to be touched 

by day. 

A jumbled geography,

only you know

which is empyreal sky 

and which is 

a sturdy line of shore.

I want to bury my

wandering fingers 

in cool soft dunes. 

I anxiously await 

sunrise to work its

wondrous

warm ing.

A Controlled Burning (before)

Surrender to ascending 

silver skin begging 

for a treasure seeking 

mouth to murmur 

from an open 

chest 

Choose me! Choose Me! 

A glistening linear pair, 

we are the dawn. 

In corpus linguistics.

A heaving collocation 

of successful communication, 

we are permanently 

fixed. 

Ahoy! Incandescent 

pulsing electricity

heats in 

a chorus of screaming 

ON. 

Fire swept.

We work to

extinguish the woe 

of the world and smolder

in paradise knowing 

You chose me! You Chose Me!

Ever Becoming

                           Unceasing 

concentric circles 

concise casting 

3 by 

3 by 

3. 

With no start there 

is no end. Unity

infinity a space 

between worlds ever 

                               becoming. 

A limitless horizon, 

                              center standing,

face the direction 

that calls you 

home.

New points 

on an ancient compass.

In-vocation with dis-missals

put past 

in ash 

and circulate 

Your path has no map

Purgatory: A Sears Parking Lot in Florida as a Children's Slumber Party Rages at Home

For Pop Pop
I went on one of his famously long walks.
For Peter
I dedicated a song before hundreds because the show must go on.
For Christopher
I read about Zen and Motorcycles but found neither God or speed.
For dad
I sobbed in rush hour traffic because my car was a womb in which I was trapped.

So mom where will it be?
You know I hate surprises.

See title for the answer.

Why do you sing in the middle of the night?

Why do you sing in the middle of the night?

My grandfather asked
“Why do you sing in the middle of the night?”
but he refused to call what we did music.
We were falling
                        down
                                stairs
with pots and pans.
Definitely.
Not.
Music.

But I took the compliment
where I could.
He called what I did singing.
Once.
Even if the hours I kept
kept him awake at night.

Sleepless.
Not quite his age but on my way.
Old enough to think
about the birds just outside
my window at 3 AM
festively carrying on.

It is neither barely morning
or freshly night and
I wouldn’t even call it singing.
It is a joyous racket;
notes floating
among
         the
            branches
of my family tree.

Accipiters

Accipiters


                                     Three hawks are visiting from out of town.

They are unanimously
disliked by the locals.
A jittery uproar
erupts into flight
as they make their way
methodically
                  towards our home.

I do not speak bird
but I know the sound
of fear, panic, and
an invisible line
                   being crossed.

Not one of us
are brave enough
to escort them
off the premises
but who wants to stick
around with all
that racket?

                                     We exit the yard in unison.

Closed Umbrella

Closed Umbrella

This wind is too much for you.
Rain be damned.

You are a tight
fist fighting back
the only way
you know how;
stiff jointed
and leaning.

The wind has been taken from me.
I curse myself.

Without the grasp
of working hands,
I am still
middle aged
and all purpose
is lost.