Cure

The clock, alarming and as a storm, swirling seemingly sideways
Faster, more red and ominous than my 1am pro·pri·o·cep·tors

The gyroscope, spinning and my brainy mind righting itself
Stronger, my legs are and I swear to all that Is holy, I’ll not fall

Baseball

I don’t want to live this yet, Springtime

For, every time the birds and bees and all manner of creatures and things -good sports and bad- migrate back

There’s the media storm, the tough talk, the hype, the great expectations placed in the wrongest of wrong places

So I will close my eyes and wait, Springtime

Nevada-California

Left alone, on an empty grey pier on a lake on high, a warm windstorm making its way through her hair, its force able and willing to carry her away to further aloneness somewhere, and she, sufficiently calm and willing, is nevermore afraid…never more.

Mormon Row

With grateful paintbrush in hand, I am leaving space for you

A beautiful a background, careful, I capture the sun

Find now open an area broad enough and close enough to the sky

That your shoulders might fit and comfortably give rest to what is

I know not the shape of you, tho’ your colors, you’ve made clear

Bright-dark weathered patina that complements my tempest greens

Vivid chards of amber to offset my mountainous blues

Your easy frame an open window, a willing respite

Fighting your way, straight to the foreground of me, for me

Withstanding, will they find us, the very wildest of climes

Name This Poem

When you suppose your eyes

Close them whenever, what do you see

Me

I see flowers that belong to you, although I have no proof

But it is your stare

From my best recollected memory

Through this whirlwind storm God permits

And this calm

From which I build my case