waterfall,
too high to flow, stretches,
hanging mists
crawling snake
in undulating glide
lazes through
taiji lady
does she drift slowly, or
slow the world?
gravity grabs
and slings a comet
soft hand unseen
glazed stone
water rolling over rock
sculpting pebbles
There’s an orange that warms my soul
when sprightly fires are dead.
It blazes back to old school days,
or the day that I was wed.
It piles the smiles on frozen faces
when they think about long gone places.
amid ruins,
sitting on a worn stone,
knowing ancients
valley below
suggested but unseen
who hauled water?
dry stacked stones
placed with precision
by masters
jungle swallowed,
spreading like a fire, but
imperceptibly
tell me, Old Stone,
what secrets did you witness
post-chisel?
icy river
all the world stands still, or
pretends to
snow deadens
sounds and signs of life
a blank slate
the breeze dies
then the snow fall ceases
time freezing
deep footprints
tell of a man and a dog
hunting rabbit
an old church
the surrounding snow
is unmarred
Minor tigers fighting for air.
This one? That one? The world don’t care.
All the pretty ponies prancing,
showing tribal styles of dancing.
All the while the world is burning
’cause of minor tiger yearnings.
There was a quivering soul string
that was bounced into a wild swing
by a chord amped to the nines
played beside some profound lines
belted out in a subtle suite of chaos.
cold white circle
deformed in its reflection
upon black waters
howling lunatics
don’t make me fearful,
quiet ones do
glowing clouds
streaked thinly through the sky
moon’s canvas
silent evil
slid through night, watched over
by a cold moon
the moon is out
my bones have gone cold
i blame it not
They praised the rucksack Lotharios,
glimpsing them through the mask.
It’s said you can tell a lot from the eyes.
You can if you have to.
If that’s the full display, all but for the stringy hair and knobby forearms —
when it’s the full picture — searching soul-windows becomes a superpower.
But the masked men clocked in on smuggler runs — hauling cataclysmic utopian brainstorm.
People loved it until they hated it.
Then the tunnel junkies were cut loose,
their magnetism depleted.
one-winged seed
drops, twirling to earth,
in slant descent
twisted petals
painted by textured brush
fall as one
porch-sitter views
a corn crib and red barn;
all slouch with age
trust all lambs
trust tigers to be tigers
trust man, not
if a sight
can quicken your pulse
it’s love… or death
Things better seen at a distance:
-snowcapped peaks
-fluffy clouds
-asteroids
-surgery
-any animal whose mouth my head fits inside
