blacksmith forges bands for a cooper
tap-tap-CLANG, tap-tap-CLANG!
staves for the barrel planed from oak
stip-stip-SHHISSH, stip-stip-SHHISSH
whiskey from the cooper’s barrel
glug-glug-GLUG, glug-glug-GLUG
souse staggers from the bar at night
ker-PLUNK!
shaggy yak
in Himalaya high
gallops carefree
desert skies
painted impossible hues
scrub and sand
moth wing eyes
so very convincing
owl or “seeing tree”
calm seas
don’t draw sailors
storms do
monkey moments
that mirrored pond,
reflecting us
Heliconia Rostrata
lobster-claw plant
flaming in red and yellow
headless bird stack
coconuts
dimple sands with a thud
tin roof heart attack
seeking relief
from the humidity,
entered greenhouse
little lizard
crawling under the door
take bug duty!
i recall short days
just as i recall cold days
nostalgia trumps truth
Walking beside a wagon.
Lost in blowing snows.
Ahead they’ll make their cannibal stance,
hoping for a voice to pierce their snow-blind minds,
and rescue them from dread days
that will haunt those lucky enough to live to contemplate their unluckiness.
Edvard Munch; “Vampire”
They say a Vampire can’t enter your house unless you invite them inside.
I don’t know whether it’s true, on account of I don’t know if Vampires are a thing.
But I recognize a rule that is good and true when I hear one.
I always hear this or that person complaining about how such-and-such is,
“…living in my head, rent free.”
Well, who invited them?
The traveler grasps nothing he can’t hold
against buffeting gales or changing fates.
He favors not the heat above the cold,
and eats one night on leaf, the next on plates.
The tribesman signals, calling to his own.
Travelers left that luxury behind.
Clubs aren’t fairer from this than that one’s bone.
One’s universe isn’t so tightly aligned.
Socrates knew the danger of the tribe.
Just as Emerson preached against the sect.
Clan primacy and justice cannot jibe,
and thinking and joining are mates suspect.
If you can’t see yourself tied to one land,
best thin those creeds on which you take a stand.
Future Buddha, sitting in the valley,
peering over low dunes, in the waning sun.
Oh, those low dunes recall peace gone badly.
Tanks in columns, aiming their big guns.
Will they? Won’t they? Run them toward lowlands.
Speed them down the valley, til they hit the pass?
What’s your future, if they charge the homeland?
Huge peace icons seldom deter the brass.
But I suppose being a peace symbol
cannot work at the size of a thimble.
two eye whites through a slit
shifting from side to side
standing in this alley
no sounds heard far or wide
it’s quiet out tonight
it never was before
this silent mode of flight
mute rumble in my core
if I should die before
I sleep, I pray, this day,
not for a one to mourn,
but, please, carry me away
don’t debate dolts
they’ll remain half-wits
after you’re spent
flex in wind
and rebound in calm
all in time
glide to dive
the hawk’s fearsome show?
gravity’s work
wise farmers
wait to do watering
eyes to clouds
mute traders
get extra carrots
for silence
The predator commands a post atop a monolithic chimney, which it defends from swooping competitors with a hop, a wing flare, all while going talons up. Its trilling whistle call signals I know not what to I know not whom, but it’s persistent. Its head swivel-snaps around in precise jerks — a clockwork motion. The kite is peering more across the building tops toward the incoming weather than down into the urban valley where it might find a meal. Monsoon season is coming, and it intends to get in some preemptive showers — just to make certain all know that Mother Nature consults no calendars. When a gust hits, the kite beak aligns on the wind direction, but wind shear catches its back feathers, giving it a shabby look.
In the background, I watch its comrades in flight. To say “circling” would be to impose more order than these birds’ chaotic aerial dance warrants. Mostly they glide, each to its own flight plan — occasionally flapping for altitude or making a brief, awkward plummet.
