Dappled as butter
spread on whole grain bread,
my memories shade, glisten.

With fingers unlocked,
I receive the wine, wafer,
as if it's dinner.

Salute--
to those odd moments
where fire and where gold
are ships whose sails I capture.

love a fading star--
so much dark flows in between--
could it love me back?

In my latest dream, I polished
God with clouds and Tee shirts.
He said I should spit-shine with
a little water, a little polish and
rub, rub, rub.

elusive sparrow
go still for just a moment
let me catch my breath

Grafitti Artist

It's toxicity, the kiss of the spray paint,
the caress of the wall, as if it was the sea,
or a woman, as if it was that bitch-goddess
art, that slippery, elusive mermaid, art.
Or so my imagination tells me, while I paint my
tag upon the wall, my name, my soul on fire.
Art, the bitch goddess--if I'm caught it could
be two years in the slammer. Art....

Clouds

danger is safety
sent to cover me
as if my words were moonbeams

perhaps it was her kiss...
we remember its shadow,
almost forgetting the light it cast

Fishing

Here I am, I've lost another one.
So many nibbles, so many pumps,
so many pulls, so many pushes,
so many words.
For such a small trip,
for such a short, short time.

Fog horn lonely and
the dark toes around me
like a shipyard cat.
"I'm a tawny yellow rose,"
the moon says. I answer,
"yes you are, indeed you are,
and so am I."

To dance, to lift up,
to stroll her garden
like a seed-hunting rooster
cock-a -doodle-do!

Two Poems

The sweet the sour,
some memories like pop tarts,
others like cranberries.

The bare-branched winter,
its unfiltered sun
like a yellow road sign,
one spelling caution or
do not enter or
slippery when wet.

The field goals, the kicked footballs,
the surges, the pains, the hits, the
misses:the goalposts: so white-washed,
so stained, so heavy, so near...yet far,
as if there was no field at all.

The field goals, the kicked footballs,
the surges, the pains, the hits, the
misses:the goalposts: so white-washed,
so stained, so heavy, so near...yet far,
as if there was no field at all.

The out-of-reach stars,
indifferent as snowflakes,
melt away with morn.

Art, like a sincere lion,
invites us to lunch,
has us for dinner.

As the moon pulls her skirt
behind a cloud, the night webs
like a black lace stocking. Until,
with dawn, the stage goes bare.

fear is that clamshell
screaming to be shut
when the heart is all muscle

"castles"

hail the troubadour
singing about the bleakness
with so many rooms

"Satori"

nice, fresh, banana--
skinned like the moon--
not that one can eat the moon

Portrait

November--the unattended baggage,
the wet and slick cardboard, the vacant
lot, the vacant eyes, the sun copper as
the bottom of a gourmet skillet.

Shadows on a
mountain,
not quite true.
I imagine you
climbing me and
I imagine me
climbing you.

This is where the road turns
Tell me why the road turns
To be so tough and tell the light
To go--or to shine--
How the shell powders to chalk
With death, that big eraser,
What the new school
What the new thought
What the dying meaning
Of me:
The sudden blueness
Of my eyes. Gone shut.

Carny Barker

"She walks, she talks, she crawls on her belly
like a reptile. Meet Little Eva-one thin dime-
one tenth of a dollar. Watch her dance the
dance of the seven blue veils, her jewels like the stars-
star--like the one that led the Magi-trembling
yet steady--yes, see Little Eva dance for one thin
dime--one tenth of a dollar...."