Extol

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Saying, “Shave,” seems sexier
Whittle is what it was and is

These troubles
These worries of war within

Away
No more

Summer has been here
Shrouded all along….

Original thought credit: David Houston; “Gonna Lay Down My Burdens”

Migrant

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Rest your weary mind
My love
Rest your stricken heart

Permit time
Permit soonness
Permit fondness promised

When seasons change, as they will
When notes become no more
Permit the absence, too

How Happy

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Do you wonder
How I can tell
What is your tell

I see into windows
Frost-covered and wishing for shutters
For the passage of time

And inside
A frozen home infested with uncertainty
Inhabitants fleeing or fled

Some foundation
Proud, I think, given its lack of examination
Not wanting the neighbors to know

The Joneses

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Walking dogs in the Sunday morning sunshine

Surprises for eachother to find

Maybe pancakes, or a new rocking chair

Building upon last night’s love, for today

Today

Is altogether theirs

Freedom

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First, -wait, first- I told her,

Before we may take the obligatory walk,

During which you don a yoke, and then become free,

And I don a wintry coat with tundra boots, and am forced to reflect upon my sin,

First,

I must self-destruct

Steel & Glass

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Hold fast to speed
Virility
With horse-powered heart of cold, hard steel
That feeds the oats my hand cannot

Fall sleeping, glassy-eyed
Blind
A plasma world upon a wall I cannot penetrate
That feeds fairytales, as my feet live actually

Something Gardens

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A sunny day

On this, the fore-edge of Spring

It looks like something good happens here

In this, the place they renamed, “Something Gardens”

Although I see really only billboards and bungalows and bulldozed-over housing projects

And strangely, no gardens

But there is the color and promise upon everyone’s skin

The special sauce in people’s blood

So I become sure

I plan to see the Something Good that happens here -those “Something Gardens” that mean to grow

So I stay and I work

I help

I sow, that someone else may reap

I wait

And I see that I, too, grow

Unfounded

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For the first time since the first time, I was presumptive
Those crickets!
Their song for me
Our mutual love of warm summer nights … and the reedy mid-day marsh….

For the second time since the first time, I learned
They were just crickets … being crickets
They chirp, they do not sing
They survive, they do not love