mixing vinegar and water

before easter

                        snow squalls

 

with stems that stood

through winter—

                        here i'll plant my life

 

the wind

the house

i listen to them moan

 

the sun is warm

            the windflowers will

lift their heads

 

under heaven's freedom

            to be stormy or clear

wearing my black beret

 

equinox

            the widower has grown

a new beard

 

dead branches

my living hands

breaking

 

picking up the dollar

        someone dropped

a buddhist nun walks by

 

morning with

a killing frost

                she prefers my naked face 

 

pine forests i cannot see from

            ohio

                        the sky reaches there

 

            limbs that walk

limbs that grow

            three old oaks and i

 

sky and winds loud and restless all day about money

 

releasing water from a stagnant pool i look within

 

a moonless night

my neighbor's light

all this hurry to die

 

a pregnant moon

we

climb into bed together

 

killed

on the road

i have no heart for travel

 

morning sky

            evening of my life—

receive the waxing moon

a quick thunderstorm has left me rushing

 

 

shuffles away in his body

the wind

bends

a tree

 

white orchids

            yellowing—

i have an appointment to be cured

 

away, alone

a gravel road

blackbirds chattering

 

an early windflower

white 

where snow never fell

 sharing last night's

                           dreams

                                dawn bleeds

 

            to avoid my hands

an injured finch

            flutters from death on the road

 

for pine cones swept to an asphalt fate i grieve

blue umbrella

            broken rib

cloudless skies

 

even the old orchard

            turns death

 into grass

sawing downed limbs into rolls of thunder

 

tracing wounds

            across the spiraling sky

                        fallen tree and i

 

plundering an abandoned nest

                                             one crow 

                                                    death

within

            the paper lantern

                        storm-darkened ohio night

 

the artist

sheds

his clay

 

coming up from the basement to a house still standing

 

 

flow of clouds beyond the bough of a newly dead tree

 

in the warmth of the sun i offer the sun my warmth

 

the way forward

        lonely day

drone of a small plane

 

the sidewalk is empty and i am alive

 

as she teaches the children to sew we turn our backs to the wind

 

has a bottle of wine

that is never to be opened

green leaves brewing for tea

 

gathering up the newspapers delivered to her empty house, yellow

 

so close

to the crocus

i have seen my veins

 

distant sound of a steel stake

               in failing light

        driven into our earth—

 

the voice inside stops to hear ohio in the wind

 having shaved my beard

               later

                       i bring a rose

 

inside

the inside silence—

a sudden cardinal sings

 

pine leaves needled with frost

inner 

warmth

 

kneels first

then enters

the rose

 

A new poem (haikoan) just published in SurVision, Issue #14!

 

sunlight

            is the milk

to my green

            tea

 

here's a big white dog

            rolling in the grass—

groundhog day

 

        dreamless

after a night of rain

        morning egg

 

Three Haikoan (#s 13, 14, 15) published in Heliosparrow!

 

a dream of two birds

tied together

flying toward some naked trees

 

full of the wars

i am wearing

a shirt soaked with life

 

spirals of seeds

top tall dried weeds—

my path through the field completes a circle

 

moon so fragile

blue sky

shone through

 

warm bed

old soul

blanket of snow

 

from cloud to limb to ground

junco and snow

so i go

 

to be a little light

i see

mercury on the horizon

seeing the limbs that fell last night—

angry winds

wild chimes

 

walking with the green sea

            walking with a gift

                        tumbled from it

 

wind moans

feet cold

clouds running ahead of the sun

my hair is thin

snow and wind

the oriole nest abandoned

 

 

lifted a potato from the earth

tuberculosis

asleep in my chest

 

lighting a candle

closing my eyes

sunrise

 

can the sun be weighed in dying whispers

where is the road that walks on it knees

how many waters are never dreamed

 

can silence be gleaned from winter geese

can shadow give the cry of birth

shall faultless blue endure as the robe of our earth

 

why did night air 

on a branch of december

turn its face to me

how old was light

that could not support

the weight of falling leaves

 

how many flaws 

of wild honey in me

how many rose

eternities

on the eve of blue

why do my violets

grieve

 

whose blood received the first immortal

whose blood is a carnival of knives

is it shadow that shapes then seals our eyes

 

where blue mountain ends :: the kiss of a silver wind flows in

 

was i a petal waiting for the sun's eye to open

or the sky who chased a small bird into breath

when did i learn that blue is the planet of our death

 

how long has my river endured the torment of water

was baptism the stone i bathed

who bled from the wound where i have no vein

 

one inch of wind :: a pearl begins

 

heron departs

to the cave

of the moon

death's day

the undoing of blue

 

are small windows the soul of silence

which thread of my life connects two dark trees

will the heat from my grave go unperceived

 

does rain hear the silenced heart

do ashes rise into a blood-warm sky

have all suns held inside a dawn that never arrives

 

child of ash :: may i wear at my throat 

your frozen whispers

child of stone :: have you met in your dreams

the mirror that wants to live

when all that is dust returns to song, where

will the child of the wound be found

 

whose river ascends to the womb of the skies

how deep is the well of a mountain's cry

for whom does earth wear her necklace of knives

 

who taught our darkest river to drink from the sea

who put silence inside shadow inside seed

how many who are dreamed want only to sleep

 

on the days i can touch what is lost, what is said?

death of depth

we dare call heaven

milk makes a prison

of skin

tears of grace

original face

 

waking up a thousand birds :: i have to be a perfect dawn

(first appeared in Roadrunner Haiku Journal in 2009)

 

two poems (first and last in the issue) just published in Issue 153 of Right Hand Pointing!

 

whose flesh lies beyond the edge of the rose

how many dreams encircle a seed

whose love is snow on a black woolen sleeve

 

who cried eight tears into the heart of each star

who runs the circus of death

whose martyred howl shall be restored as flesh

 

petals of rain

honeyed sky

young mountain silently rising inside

island: the moon

that swallowed the moon

a mouth that gathered clouds

 

a short poem published in Issue 5 of tiny wren!!

 

whose vision dies at the entrance to dawn

on which side of my skin is sky

if dream is the cradle, who is the child

 

whose skin has not awakened to green

whose heart is blind with eyes

where are there hands to bandage the sky

 

when were stars erased by rain

when did sleep still live in a tree

who was the first to murder a dream

 

who hasn't an eye that refuses light

        and helpless blood in their breast

when shall our honey smell faintly of death

 

is it true that earth has never uttered a word

            

            that silence and stone make soul

   

in the clear mind of rain

                                                aren't we random

 

why is silence round

why did darkness grow a tree

why does staying alive take wings

 

were you always as far as the moon can sail

were you the bell that broke into light

in the ancient darkness that is to come

whose arms hold the mother of dawn

 

when we forget we are water :: who drowns

 

what is the fate of a child in whom the sea has been crossed

why has the moon kept no one from harm

when will the voice of the rain stop saying

going back cannot be done

 

new poem published in SurVision #12.

 

who can walk the path inside sparrow

who can dream where the moon is unknown

how can depth be the origin of snow

 

how far from her moon shall the sleeper wander

how far from water may one drown

when all that is dust returns to song

where will i be found