art girl

an artist
'sheart, or
her art
displays her worn sleeve
fitted like love
wrapped in skin
such rapt attention
to life's detail

that
'sheart, felt
deep in the wine
imbibed blood drips
skin like tattooed paint
mural dreamscapes
wilderness escaped
into her living ballroom

such is her heart
'sheart, her
art is not art
but real in the real
movements of her eyes
slaving raw beauty
as elegant as autumn
corks the vineyard naked
pouring libations sculpting
vintage sips of sophistication

sun girl

simple is sky meets
horizon, her eyes on
par with pearls, her
own wisdom is wonder
full of more wonder.
as if she shines, the sun
shine is hair
strands of light she
smiles those rose petal
palettes of spring color.

she is as such, such
splendor and candid
sweetness can swim
like laughter, her wit
is grafted to her spice.
sugar, sure, or ginger
roots her existing to this
corporeal, her heart sleeves
she bares transparently, owing
to her sun risen skin.

dream time

it may well be, we
built this only with time with
summer turned twilight now
piled leaves autmned
toward this heavy valley's
stars through the fog. it's here,
stream or wave sounds
like hard stones soft
when dirt decays eternity into bones
on fire. there is a heart beat
and it dreams. we adhere, we
hack away at perpetuity
sinking entropy gathers moment
-um- and then dreams
invent our daily. suddenly.
days nights in between shadows
two darknesses dragging, the moon
paints a mournful longing of the sun.
the meantime echoes with mirrors,
what you do is repeated returning and
refraction of your own light
kissing smooth silver. the eye
the be-holder. the earth lives
your life, you make the motions
give matter meaning
let the river pass or
get trapped in the sky. no
matter what it gets in you, binds
to you and
so graves exhale the future's past
where we sleep dream descend
into fruits whose trees
we never thought to touch we
were busy believing that time had anything
to do with eternity.

copper girl

some how she
is a shimmer, her
swimming fire bright as
if time erupts. prose
of her twilit lips spoke
in sea shells she
is, the shore sings. such
mysterious evoking
poetry, life petals feeling. her
unfurling metallic.
spring air
borne of sun
light. her copper's hair burnt
clouds pass by
the post-noon laze languid
intoxicating language in pints.
so we laugh crepuscular, our
lips kiss metaphor,
dreams wandering
the sky written. words we tie to
mind's tether, together to gather
sumptuous fruit, some common
we nurture and tap roots
poet trees.
rare earth gifts, she present.
this now. love
that is, like laughter.
wordless. a possible
prose.

blue girl

you always, why then ever
night behind a curtain?
the sight of you, only
highest treetops in the final light.

fled the sun, you hide the moon.
even if evenings fill star lights,
chart of your astronomical heart.
why do you become a dream only?

empty, my voice the silence, lament
your name written in skin tones.
my eyes your eyes unfolding mere sights,
open hands hold solitary wishes.

i am dark. you are darkness.
between us some light endless with
shadow, neither hot cold nor us.
needing sails, the wind is elsewhere.

grief lament? you aren't supposed to
be here, idle as passengers, factual
like mirrors. still. nothing is lost,
though none has been gained. painful.

the night you ever are, hiding
behind a curtain. i cannot see you,
only the failing light at last, high
in the final treetops' fading.

I Am Michael Brown

Unarmed, going home.
Unarmed, reaching for the sky, like
every youth, dreaming.
Arms not now for hugs,
never again for greetings. Unarmed
heart that stops. Arms not now
for art nor sport, neither
climbing nor reaching. Merely
the end of the road. Of life.
Arms now for violence.
Arms for fear, for strangling
this stillborn world, struggling
to be born peacefully.
Arms for embracing, never again.
Arms that kill. That kill.
Arms that kill and kill
unarmed generations.
Armed to the teeth this police
state of confusion. Arms
wrestle with lies inside a squad car.
Finger squeezes trigger
squeezes lifeless nigger
unarmed. Again.
Pistol pointed, poised to execute
justice at arm's length.
Again. Goddamnit!
Not again!!

Music To Go Home To

For Julie Marston, in memoriam

Tears, moving.
Deep muddy rivers flow
through many histories
borne of love's nurture.
Some distant futures
unfold upon open
outstretched palms
like pearls in the world's
oyster. Earth is an altar
and children are candles.
Learning lights
their way. The way home
lined with smiles,
linked with hands clapped,
clasping this unbroken circle.
Music to go home to, when
burdens are laid down.
Music to go home to, when
tears flow away on jazzed notes
blowing away. Joyful sadness
as one more saint goes marching
in. To our hearts
inward. Outward in word
and deed. This is music
to go home to: all of us
singing in her name. Music for her
to go home to.
Finally.
In grace.
Gracias.