Imperfect

Clouds rumble in, unexpected house-guests

to an otherwise quiet sky, pushing

through the door of a perfect summer day

to remind us nothing is ever perfect. 

Cloaked in blue grey, under-layed with rain

winds speak in the flap of tarps

rushing oceans of grass

train whistles hanging too long in the wooden air.  

Last year there were promises of return

from faraway places; now faintly evaporated

trails of words catch and crumble

like dry leaves in their annual exodus to grass.

All that is green today will soon be yellow.

We hibernate as deeply as winter bears

while stars unclothe themselves slowly

to a grim, voyeuristic night.

Alone-ku

Alone and drunk
at the top of a hill -
nobody looks like you

Briefly it Enters, Briefly it Speaks

I am the blossom pressed in a book, found again after two hundred years. . . . I am the maker, the lover, and the keeper. . . . When the young girl who starves sits down to a table she will sit beside me. . . . I am food on the prisoner's plate. . . . I am water rushing to the wellhead, filling the pitcher until it spills. . . . I am the patient gardener of the dry and weedy garden. . . . I am the stone step, the latch, and the working hinge. . . . I am the heart contracted by joy. . . the longest hair, white before the rest. . . . I am there in the basket of fruit presented to the widow. . . . I am the musk rose opening unattended, the fern on the boggy summit. . . . I am the one whose love overcomes you, already with you when you think to call my name. . . . - Jane Kenyon -

Blue Guru

There is a bough on the blue spruce

resemblng the face of a guru.  I can see
his form, a hand sprouting a pointed 
finger towards my living room window. 

On calm days the guru sways gently

forgiving my sins.  The sun and shadow

reveal his own shades of grey and he

does not speak, mouth a silent yawn.

Whenever the wind gusts, he gestures

with purpose, stretches closer
wagging a finger, the movement 

of his head revealing displeasure.

These are the days that I am most

observant.  Rain hangs from the prickle
of his beard, saturates his soggy fingertip
bubbles from the end of a piney nose. 

In the nude of winter, he remains clothed,

frozen in memories iced with last year's 
unforgiving, drenched days.  

Perhaps that explains our natural kinship.

We communicate through intemperate seasons,

in little gusts of wind, peeks of sunshine

the empty quiver that is winter.  His hoary 
finger no longer points, only proffers solace. 

Today, the horizon brews rain.

I can count miles between thunder claps.

Soon, blue guru and I will speak again.

The Sorting Field

It's mid- August. 
Every man I know 
is sorting something out 
rolling around an idea - 
not talking 
lost in some sort of distress. 
It must be something 
about the change of season 
or a lack thereof 

attempting to match 
mis-matched socks 
or roll pennies into 
brown parchment tubes 
working on panicking 
when they should be 
arranging a rendez-vouz 
that has nothing to do 
with anything other than 
last spring.

There has to be 
more than this early 
September -

there has to be 
more than this.

Fly-ku

broken artichoke hearts 
green and glassy on the plate– 
a black fly creeps

Altars

It all falls apart
at the knees.   

Too much 
bending 
weeding 
kneeling 
falling 

at the feet 

of lovers 
unworthy 
weed-filled 
gardens 
false god 
promises 
posing 
rock stars 
hoping 
for 

suddenly 

it’s all 
too much 
knees give way 
freely 
no use 
standing 
no need for 
canes 
walkers 
support 

smile 
fall softly 

too many altars 
so little time