Oh little spikey spinning sphere,
drifting across the fresh clear air,
you think you’ll hijack my machine
for replication of your genes.
Something inside does multiply;
so small I can’t fathom its size,
but still it squeezes out the me
any would know from memory.
Your song and dance are done to Death,
making Crazy like Lady Macbeth.
But do not forget that last Act;
in ambition is writ the wrack.
offset prints
bisected by tail drag
lizard sign
gnarled driftwood,
snake skin, rusty barbed wire
in red sand
cold morning,
the rising fire ball,
a silent knell
red sandstone
warmed by the rising sun
gorge aglow
yon mirage
mirror-clear blue,
chase the lie
Last night the drape was thin and billowy.
Dreams seen through the weep of a willow tree.
Shapes without texture, beings without plights.
A curtain of fog, turning days into nights.
I stood on a corner in the land of nod.
One not crossed in maps of men or gods.
And wondered whether I was found or lost.
Waiting in calm for a morrow tempest-tossed.
But morning light brought me no clarity.
mossy trees
in a foggy forest
eery squared
split oak tree
hollowed by water
chimnified
a lone tree
sits atop a green hill,
solemnly
distant trees
resemble a painting
not a true grove
A quiet kind of lightening storm
will fire in wild moments of mass,
when thought chunks rush to the center —
the very center — of my mind.
It’s a ten ton pile up of thought
first packed, then crammed, together fiercely.
Just like the thunderless lightening,
no sound escapes that brain tempest.
When she saw a corpse in the snow,
fringed by a clear melt line,
she knew he’d lain there quite a while,
taking his time to die.
What’d you suppose he’d been thinking,
as breath clouds shrank to naught?
Did he wonder if death was better
when it was a fight you fought?
Maybe he was past such concerns,
and in his final hours,
he conjured into his mind a
field of spring wildflowers.
Maybe he’d moved beyond caring,
and just lie, feeling cold,
tuning into the clouds above
watching their shapes unfold.
No one could ever know such things,
so why did she so care?
That someone should, occurred to her,
was only right and fair.
Source: NASA
wind-whipped ash
swirling in an eddy
light as snow
ash flutters
from a darkened sky,
piling, drifting
the path made
by footprints tracked through ash
tells a story
volcano,
spewing ash cloud skyward
mushroom top
grazing sheep,
loitering head down;
what awes them?
rice terraces,
disguising man’s order
in nature’s green
ripe wheat,
bobbing in a breeze —
sea-like moves
on a range
that stretches beyond sight
but not mind
tea plantation,
a snake slithers through
amid the pickers
shaman staring
out into the distance
a world away
hawk on the roof
twists its head, pointing
one eye groundward
cow head fixed
as a raucous world screams —
blind or unmoved?
what’s it like
to have one’s blind spot
to the front?
the sad moment
when baby’s smile is found
to be fart fueled
On the cusp of each journey that matters,
a mingling of wonder and fear flushes the body.
If you made the journey,
wonder outshone fear.
Death is a journey.
I can’t tell you whether it’s
-a journey to oblivion
-a journey to spread one across a web of consciousness
-a journey to be uploaded into another body
-a journey to Heaven or the Elysian Fields
I don’t know,
but I don’t have to know.
All I have to do is be ready for the journey, and
Let my wonder burn brighter than my fear.
