Baggage

Some days I open my mouth
and I'm suddenly wearing
a story that other people see.

I must look like an old pair of overalls
or just someplace south that's hot and humid.
This scene stars, “me,” with a belt buckle
and pearl snap-buttons dripping down my shirt.
I wear boots of course.

A scratchy soundtrack drowns out my words
leaving handfuls of drawly, clipped suffixes
to take their places out in the dusty street,
their hands hovering just above their holsters.

Today's crop of tourists only see me
in a crowd of folks holding jars of sweet tea,
our tobacco stained lips spew vitriol for anybody that
didn't get their dark skin from the sun.

More muted words crawl from my mouth,
falling to the ground.
Someone twitches his gun hand
and then narrows his eyes.

I hear a familiar whistled tune

and Opie walks by barefoot, 

right between us all, and saves the day.
He’s wipin’ off the fish he dropped;
with not a care in the world.

Oath

Another poem died inside my head
last night. I was too dozy to stir
and jot down the needed word or two
for it to re-bloom when I awoke.

This morning I'm wearing the shirk of responsibility
to my pencil and pad and to the well
of dreamy thoughts from where
things sometimes come.

The siren's wail winds slowly up,
reverberating throughout my skull.
"Search everywhere, look in
all the old boxes and crannies again,"
for any glimpse or trace
of something that might restart the clip
that had played inside my sleeping head.

So here I sit, stuck with only pale impressions
of a young girl who winks at me
from the clickity Super 8 frames.
She now scolds me over coffee
to swear the oath once more.
To get up and write it down next time and
never sleep through her scene again.

Enlighten

If a single candle can 

yet brighten a world
and deliver it from darkness,

then will we take that single step

to move the light onward,

pressing fore and not back?

This seems to me
the greatest act of all.

From the flame we need

only the slightest shield,

for our eyes to render

where we truly walk.

It is we

who must move the light
to go

where we have not.

Pins

The clothes pins grumbling
in their wicker basket
seem to have a hankerin'
for cotton today.

They patiently wait,
hoping for something clean
and damp to come their way.

Lying there with ready jaws.
Straight-grained and impatient
with hopes of being sprung
from their unloved rest.

Soon they'll be outside
hanging on the line
with slightly stiffened friends,
you know the gang;
jeans, some towels
and momma's drawers.

Crescent Lake

   misty cold mountains
embrace its mirrored water
   bearing gifts of rain

Paths

  cold travelers asking
if my finger knew which way
  pointed towards home

Gestating

   patient tiny buds
 ready, pregnant cherry boughs
  reaching for the sun

Clouds

   blossoming white clouds
rest upon my cherry tree
  -finches standing guard

Hippo/potamus

    freed from the saddle

the horse asleep in the rain

   dreams he is swimming

Midnight

   my warm breath rises-
the night sky opens her robe
   teasing me with stars





s

Dawn

   walking through the night
tomorrow's hand finds my door
  -morning lightly knocks