Tuesday, June 28, 2011

Cemetary Prison

The elders,
buried on the hill
under the time
twisted stones,

surrounded by that
fence with no
discernable gate,
can't get out,

stay caged above the town
watching the young
parade from restaurant
to restaurant.

Sunday, June 26, 2011

A Not True

I write poetry
that has an audience

in my egocentric brain and
make things on paper

I call art that wait
like a beggar for a

passerby's disinterested eye.
Self and sincerity

wrestle on the ancient
field of paper.

There are just too many
empty artists.

Sunday, June 19, 2011

Lilly Pond

without making what nature makes,
I install filament clouds
and wire grasses.


Tuesday, June 14, 2011

Rolling Down the River

Is it somewhere between
"boyning" and "burning?"
The singer works the ar.
There is a faint
smell of oil.

the time
between the consonants
and vowels
leaves previously unknown
room for
microscopic lives .

I make this
discovery in a dream,
and understand
where all those eternal
souls can fit.

Friday, June 10, 2011

Ten AM

Coping is fun
I think as I lounge
in late Spring

while the kitchen
is slowly reborn
and I have made tea

on a slow grill outburner.
We are in a bubble
of Summer.

The insects are kind
I have never heard
so many birds.

One of them is singing,
"we need ya-we need ya-
we need."

Friday, June 03, 2011

He Thinks Poetry is Fraud

He is allowed
to sit bundled on the porch
hugging the walker

on the cool June morning
with all the piety of the flowers
swarmed around him.

He feels that
poetry is fraud.
But the pretty poets
long fingered, pavane

among the peonies,
gesturing toward
but not quite touching.