Wednesday, July 13, 2011

returning to dream of understanding only to forget

it is my time to return to the mountains.
those winding, unguarded paths sing
like twisted angels or guarded sirens
pulling me back with a tug to my hair
a yank to my soul, back into the mountains.

it is my time to dream of the vineyards.
those lush, trailing fingers curl
like pompous snakes or an infant's tendril
tempting my drying tongue with wine on
lips to the glass and vine, i dream of vineyards.

it is my time to understand the fields.
those undulating, tawny grasses laze
like flossy, yawny lion tails
bedding my bones down to rest a while
on a pillow of breath, i understand the fields.

it is my time to forget the shoreline.
those lapping, crystalline waves dance
like clapping children or drunken sailors
waving farewell to my weak blue eyes and
the last of my tears on the shoreline.

Monday, July 11, 2011

enchantment. relocation.

what is magic, if not fleeting?
when the twirling slows
when the twinkling stars set
when the last tide rolls
i am left in the broken silence
with my flushed heart still beating.

you can not know a breaking soul
until you feel the loss of being whole
as the waves slip from your fingers
as the north star pops and fizzles away
as fairy dust becomes just pebbled sand...
i am a haunted island in this sea

lift me up and toss me away
i'll land here again to nestle
deep within the forest and the bay
when my clock stops counting
when my adventures start waning
when the snow surrenders to melting

this magic is fleeting
my soul is breaking
lift me up and toss me away

Thursday, July 7, 2011

into the fox den

hurry scurry
turvey topsy
Peter the furry
Flopsy, Mopsy-
and what of Cottontail?
sneaking, peeking
magic seeking
speaking namby pamby
and so curious of the den?
it killed the cat
(the fox that is)
and the rabbit is next-
a foxy grin greets
her sallying prey
as he dilly-dallies...
when he prays
she steals his
breath, tongue
but gives them back,
(kisses on his back)
to ensure he sallies back
hurrying scurrying
dilly dallying
sneaking, peeking
hot to (fox) trot
lickity- split
right into the den
again, again
(unless Peter tricks her first)

"Peter never stopped running or looked behind him till he got home to the big fir tree." ~1983

Friday, July 1, 2011

leo the lion

that northern sun was hot today
(sweltering, hazy)
its elusive face hung over the bay
behind a curious summer cloud
(peeking, winking)
through its curious summer shroud.
i didn't drink too much today
i kept those chilled boys at bay
my quiet pen stopped lips too loud
(chattering, kissing)
i scribbled and sang and swam and vowed.
a lazy lion loped along today
(pawing, yawning)
to my clever camp along the bay
napped in my sun though he was not allowed
(tip-toeing, hushing)
in my absence he was anything but proud.