Wednesday, June 1, 2016

Breakfast

   my morning surprise-
wandering through the berries
  red lips on black bear 

Ghosts

Flowers bleed up
through dirt
colored mirrors not
done with work

old homes and lost gardens long gone
not one stick of wood
marking where they faithfully served

Excepted by these bulbed blossoms
Chanting old address numbers to each other
Over and over each spring and fall.

This is where we live

Her Room

Presbyterians and others have drunk toasts in Monica's old corn-yellow bedroom. Mom too
slept there the first night; dad would have howled had he known.

It's walls fell and as we changed its spots and stripes. Now eating breakfast there most mornings,
watching squirrels out side the windows.

We inherited her dreamland with glass doorknobs and emptied closets. The room and we
testify that she awoke where I now sit drinking mornings coffee.

Driggs

West of Driggs, just out of Wyoming's reach
we passed the staggered
chewing fleet of harvesters

Stretched across the wheated hills
The metal locust crawl along
Stripping the stalks of
Golden sunshine, sewed in graceful
Topographic corduroy rows

Woody too, sang of golden hills,
he must have have watched this
show long before

Pyres of dust spiral skyward
Each lumbering machine moved
In synchronized choreography
hungry small train chugging
Along so heavy laden and ready

The Tetons watched, in wait for snow
As another harvest ended

Seated Then Buried

Headstones mark
the resting place
where the buried Lazboys
lye back and hold those
that had sat and watched

Now each had their own
remote control, just no reception.
Focused on a small dark screen
that had first went all jagged-like,
followed by a test pattern,

then forever black.

Northwestern Sunlight

High above Oregon's mist
lounges a pale orb
coy or maybe just bashful

She lies stretched out on her cloudy davenport
like a lazy stretching cat

Lolling in the sky
writing love notes and swirls
to rhododendrons and monkey puzzle trees

Hanging there with downcast eyes
knowing her timid glances will go
unreturned until

Raindrops fall through the mist
punching little holes with their
constant whispers of devotion

followed momentarily by tiny threads
of falling light

Beached Sun

Today's  sparkle is almost done
Running barefoot through the waves
With sand between my toes
warm thoughts
behind my eyes