Beyond Fences, A Meadow

mountain meadowSomewhere there is a meadow
beyond fences and the thousand rattles

that breathes in mountain air
and breathes out fuschia flowers

and from the edge one can watch
the world ceasing up

in all its fearful loneliness
through the seven seasons

and all its striving
like a child for its mother

grasping towards the toy
that got away behind the curtain

but the meadow up there
it keeps meadowing
butterflies and wild onions


the clouds come and go
in the big cerulean sky

where music lives
before the first note is born

and stillness that is midwife
to the storm goes to keep her peace

and all the colors
become their true selves

before the shadow
suffers their shine

somewhere there is the green meadow
just beyond the next peak

or perhaps it’s at the foot of the peak
that stands before you now

behind all the pretty fences
that you yourself put up


The Last Poem of The Last Poet

IMG_0436In the way summer never catches up with fall
and fall never catches winter,
and spring is a dream of winter
that winter never lives

In the way that
each unfolds an invisible season
from within,
she went up to unfold herself
into the mountain
one last time

to paint the sunset of her life
with words of affirmation

and share some unadorned moments
where the sky has eyes
and the rocks breathe fathomlessly.

She felt the lichen on her skin
before she saw them

arching her bare back against
a great granite boulder
bronzed belly
sipping the autumn sun

“There were so many I never got to,”
she whispered into the mountain’s ear.

“All my ahitas, the little aha moments
and sounds begun but never sung
barely sketches, mere glimpse of notes
could not be caught, will not be rung.”

“A title is all they have.

A memory of a True Account of a Conversation with a Worm
Got her musing about the Secret Chord
that the Sun-Eater plays, always
One Shore Beyond Desire
in his Wounded Vision
Drinking Water From A Wooden Bowl
Until the Bright Logic Is Won
and the Carefully Calculated Collapse
evokes all the Sextillions of Infidels
and we shall all be Moderately Immortal.”

“Perhaps a future poet
will find them scattered on this mountain
and make of them what I could not.”

From below in the mist
it had all looked so grey,

But now, above the clouds
atop Mt. Parnassus
there was nothing that was not
overflowing with color
there was nothing that was not

Including the splendid cerulean Sierra sky.

“What a great word,” she thought,
as sun bent seaward.

Turning her body over in wide embrace
her cheek pressed softly
against the hard rock
warm from late afternoon
flecked with silver, green, and pink
like stars trapped within.

“The moments I fully met are enough.”

Her breathing slowed
to match the mountain
inhaling and exhaling
in the marrow of her bones

“All is sound and color and texture,
a great coming together
and pulling apart
when we come to this place.

Have I been brave enough to feel it all?”

The great western eye closed its lid
as it sunk into an unseen sea

and with a tremendous sigh of love over fear,
she too closed her lids
lending her final syllable to the Deep Breath.

Is Your Castle Bee Proof?

rampartWhat rampart wrought again?
oh how you worked so well that stone within

Iron bound and tough beyond which
no entrance to the throne at all
and repelling any purchase on your wall

What sentinels on parapets posted
with fistly smiles of security boast
yet mute your extravagant heart?

The bees of love have come,
sound the alarm–

Let the bells sound off:
Sing, Song, Sang, Sung!
Ring, Rang, Rung!

Ablaut! Ablaut! The bees are about!
They’re tickling
the rampart east and south!

Abominate with love your fear,
dressed as knights
and like shadows at noon,
let the sentinels take flight

Once they’ve abjured the realm
to move on to better positions
worthy of their vigilance

Let even your fourth stomach
form an original conversation
with the open meadow

While the bees sip sweetly
your bold blood
drunk on delicious dreams
in your throne room

Seven Shadows and Eagle Worm


The first of these
a shattered mirror
shard to shard
eyes of fear

The second of these
the noise forlorn
brought me to my knees,
my lord

The third of these
the lies reborn
from truth it flees
that awful morn

The fourth of these
a memory torn
the images retreat from
storied storm

The fifth of these
I couldn’t trust
it fled forever from my grasp

The sixth of these
a midnight scorn
a venom seethed
and deeply born

The final shadow
stopped me fast
I could not breathe
it was my last

and left me on the edge of things
until I found my roots and wings

what could save a shadowed man
but eagle worm with rainbowed hand?

Eclipse of the Super Blue Blood Moon

super blue blood moonIn your uncanny orb of night, join these
Gathered ingredients of earth and sky,
Bold eremite of the winter season.
Blushing argent cheeks with ancient red wine
In the darkling hour of your silent
Transfiguration: Let the pot boil.

Hue with bodies heaving spells the spicy
Concatenation of your churning dish.

Accept the earthly shadow and resist not
The wondrous gravity of the moment.
With light and dark thy destined orbit’s marked.

Wax gibbous and grow a pregnant shaping
Of some image towards unfurled freedom

From that uncooked root called fear, a toxin
Spreading through the whole like soured liquid

And festering, sinks a sumptuous stew–
The more ingested, the more hunger too.

Now the lunatic transmutation made
Not by magic, nor with wand of wizard
But by channeled heat and moves cathartic.

Stir with patience the hearty blend within
Until all poison into sweetness changed.

Behold a new fruit, orb oracular!
Transliberating itself down the west
By and through and with that which holds it all.
A Peach, vigorous belly earthbound bent
And bruised. — Merely emblem of its ripeness.

Pluck it from the sky! Break your holy fast
With holy hunger and greet the dawn with
A wild and boisterous jubilance:
Sun in one hand, the moon in the other
With nectar dripping down your canny face.

My Joy Has No Reason

IMG_6316There are reasons for my grief
the list is short but deep
a story for a rainy day

there are reasons my eyes turn red
and narrow like a laser
but that’s a different poem

and the fears, my dear little friends
have their splendid enemies,
blind assassins in the night

But my joy!
ah, my joy
has no reason
and flees at the thought

But rather arises
bright and improbable
like sequoia, a giant from the smallest seed
Or the morning star before dawn