MAGGIE

  no tail to wag
our bobtail greets us with her
  ever dancing hips

11.11.2011

Defrocked

  colored trees
fall from their pulpits to
  rainbows below

11.11.2011

Springing

  flowers bud-
bursting with dreamt
  deja vu

11.11.2011

FENIX

  in the lean desert
of cactus sharp coyote eyes
 -rabbits dare not move

11.14.2011

Empire Lost

Nevada Texas loafs on Center Street

where Empire once stood,

on this black hot prairie that too few

bother to ever really plow.

Its old barns contently shedding layers

of their corrugated skins are consoled

by herds of silent rusting cars

and a dead lawn mower or two.

Muted houses lie breathless

with their plywood windowed eyes,

blinded from the glare of summer’s absolution,

dying just a little more every day.

Like slumbering frogs in a simmered pot of slow decay.

I lay back on trodden flat-blade grass in yards

of Grand Canyon cracks pleading for pardon

or faith-healed geologic repeal from the

ever blaring golden sun. This familiar sod

is no kin to my now distant home rye grass.

St Augustine turf whispers prayers for rain,

rare these late fall days. Even thunder

holds its breath till springtime comes again to call.

The evening breeze slakes the days last hours

enough to rouse the sleeping crickets to metered song. 

The black skied country night spills over me,

alive with the milky wash of stars that the cities

 hide from view. One by one each bashfully shows

their face as my eyes adjust to their stage.

I have missed you all so very much.

So here I sit, front row, center

in my sister’s kneaded garden of stubborn onions

and okra, with their leaf-bent heads stewing

in the east Texas gumbo silently hoping

to see the lost days of Empire once again.

 

11.5.2011

ESCAPED

  as the damper shut
life slips up the open flue
 with just a few sparks


11.9.2011

AUTUMNS SHROUD

This bleeding jaundiced canopy,

a season finely darned. The old trees

wait and nod then shed the tapestry

of this year’s loomed detail.

A wintered breath leaches from your toil

this grave lain funeral shroud. Night-cold

limbs will miss the absent glory

of summer’s golden light.

Slip now your gown off shoulders high,

for kissless cold-embraces of the empty
not here yet.

Swift ferried now on Charon's funeral

barge to the mossen exiled shores.

Till next breaks the following dawn

of Spring begets the green renewed.

.


11.9.2011