Worship Out of Doors — a poem


“Keep close to Nature’s heart…
and break clear away, once in awhile….
Wash your spirit clean.”

– John Muir

Camp chairs on the banks of a pond,
under an oak yet to give out Spring’s leaves.
Gray overcast makes the canopy a stained-
glass.  Looking up I watch angelic hosts rising
and descending upon branches.  A Tufted
Titmouse hops lower and lower – to a limb
five feet above me – to deliver the annunciation.
Warblers keeps the ants at bay.  A Downy taps
out the Stations of the Cross.  The Bald Eagle fills
in for the Holy Spirit, casting the Great Blue Heron
from the heavens.  A Blue Jay celebrant leads
the Exhortation; the Red-Bellied Woodpecker remains

I’m not dressed for church.

Too Many Times Out In a Storm — a Poem


“A poet is a man who manages,
in a lifetime of standing out in thunderstorms,
to be struck by lightning five or six times.”

— Randall Jarrell

Oh yes, it’s true I’ve stood out in storms, but never wrote
a single solitary verse.  I reveled in the chaotic insanity
without having the knowledge of rhyme and meter to know
what was poetry about it and what was prose — the crash
and the timber struck an untuned, untrained ear deafened.

So untrained, unused to the things of culture I considered
the wall cloud, the downburst, hail, and the whirling, gyring
funnelled winds fit for the visual arts — never once written
in pen and ink.  Ah, but I was but a neophyte not yet struck.

A child, barely a teen, fugitive from sudden squalline’s force,
in the shadow of a Red Oak, the falsest of shelters, I was struck
by my vulnerability– mortality — the deadly bolts, sucking winds.

I became a meteorologist — one who studies meteors of earth —
lithometeors, hydrometeors.  The meatier subjects of weather
were my meal before and after fast.  By its beauty, by its force
I was struck — the dance between the sublime and the vicious.

When I consider…

the cobalt charybdis that rages across the tabled plains,
with all the death and madness that accompanies its run,
has the ability to take a tea-swilling short story liar and scare
him into a Côtes-du-Rhône Rouge swilling Pulitzer laureate.

Trust me — there are two things in life you can’t outrun:
a twister and the muse that grabs you by the neck, tells
you to stop, turn around and face the fury… and versify!

Dusty Road Canto — a poem

Desert Run



I return to the earth that made me

— Ezra Pound, Canto XXVII


Dust again, dust again!  We cannot sweep
away the origins.  We cannot sweep away
the central truth of our existence — water
separates us from the soil; water juiced
with lightning.  We are liquid lightning
running from water to water, but dusted
with a deadline.  We run, we run! Dead
run to the bridge that is the race’s finish
line.  Lightning steps and no one wins;
no one loses — it’s a tie on the other side.


* * *

So a couple of poets and I have gotten together and decided to whet our brains against the steel lines of Pound’s Cantos.  (Let’s see… that would make our heads stone, wouldn’t it?)  Interesting sparks flying.

Tired Child — a poem


The fuss that comes
when I try to write,
the whine, the thrown-back head,
eyes scrunched tight,
mouth — unfortunately not
puts into question the object
of putting pen to paper.

How can one reflect
on the day, the morning,
the glory of the heavens,
the tawdry side of the city
when one is saddled
with the near-squall
of the frustrated poetic muse?

Parenting a piece of literature
is a long-suffering, thankless task.

of this affair

A wonderful example of a ill-begotten Rubaiyat by a gifted young voice.

Zander In Print

The flowers now have all been forced to bloom
cesarean buds, by-passing the womb’s
flow of blood; no seminal grace is there
to offer mercy at the stone consumed
by flames and hellish want of this affair.
We flag about and fly surrender’s flare
with tails and ties and string; it rains. Don’t ooze
don’t weep, our festered sores, a sinner’s prayer
for each. Both you and I will stand accused
of breaking open wounds, of healing scars.
So trim a Valentine that is misused
into a fading paper cup unused.


for dVerse Poet’s Pub an interlocking Rubaiyat

Thoughts: Wrote this in the traditional iambic pentameter because Will’s words flow and broil in my veins. Add a couplet and pretend the rhymes don’t matter and we have a sonnet.  What I don’t know is if the Rubaiyat is still ‘legal’ with enjambed lines. Obviously this is influenced by that…

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Growl — a poem

Feeling kind of wolfish, I thought I’d revisit a wild-inspired write.

Life in Portofino

wolf glassesglassgoddessngraving.com


You never joined the pack.
Why share the wildness?

The abandon
as you run through the wooded stands of life,
no trails,
random turn-asides –
the main thing is to avoid going
face-first into a tree.

That unbrushed,
unkempt look
is not a façade;
the outcome
of seldom settling,
always approaching
days, life, as a chase –
predator or hunted.

Why settle for less;
to be anything other than a feral friend?

Tell me when you come down off the high of traveling unfamiliar ground,
the territory of the unknown that quickens your pulse and your eye.

Tell me when you are ready to settle again
and we will gather, you and I,
and drink –
not staid liquor to soothe
our nerves, but fire-blended whiskey!

I know you won’t stay
for long.  But for a time
I will join you under a moon.

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Quadrille: Keeping It Seriously Sweet — a poem



Tom Jones and the Art of Noise

          don’t have to be rich

the cast of Glee (seriously!)

          don’t have to be cool

Who remembers Dynasty – I mean seriously?

          I just want your extra time and your

Just no way to top His Purple Badness!

* * *

De is hosting Quadrille Monday at dVerse Poets Pub.  She bids us to “kiss.”  Blame her.  🙂