The Ocean, the Sky, Our Bed
He called to me with honey
sweetly on his lips and on his mind,
reflecting on things to come as he dipped
me back as if in dance, tango,
and pulled me close to start a
musical rhythm between our
hearts and bodies, heart following
this beginning. With subtle wish
and thrashing kisses, we dove in
to waves of bed sheets, through their
blue rhythm and into it,
everything rippling into an
abyss created for and by
our swim, our circling through piece
of heavenly waters, skies, a kind
of flying as one, deep breathing
required in this sweet drowning, tied
together by breath and need, strange
exotic sensations of
tender strokes through the blue, harsher rows
through rougher seas and tides and storms, a
sweeping, spraying as we began
to ascend, climbing, pulling our way
through currents, layers, colors, bright
places, as we pulled through liquid glass toward
lights, kaleidescopic sailing
fast, but changing our pace slightly, the
sliding motion, gliding power,
of honey sweet sticky lovely joys
his mast carrying us through sea-
breezes of salty goodness, without
need for warning as we curve so
subtly together greeting there as
one, this music of a pitch so sweet.
Her Offering
She wanted so badly to paint boldly
every image she weaved, waves, palm trees, a
girl's long blonde hair flying back as she rides
on her version of a black beauty horse.
Like a child taking the breeze in her
arms, she painted with natural joy, a
happy sprite making colors leap or bleed,
her vision set to paper, unlocking
her dreams and aspirations singing out
to you, the viewer, who might notice her
craft and know precisely what she wishes
to convey, whether a man's grief as he
bends over crying in a stream, or a
field of wild flowers glowing in sun-
light, blowing back in the breeze, or a heart
slowly stopping its beating as seen in
the face of an older person, or mountain
ranges for as far as the eye can see,
or horses running wild on open
land, whatever she offers for you to
feel or enjoy, the deer in the woods near
its newborn or the whale blowing water
from its blowhole when it comes up for air.
She paints as an offering; see her eyes
as they give off an angelic glow so
bright you'll see how she gives this painting to
you, how her hands press together, open,
then, when she sees you, a fragile bouquet.
We Waltzed Through One Scene out of Time
A canopy of trees over-
head shimmering sunlight pouring
through the leaves, the whole scene, shadows
swinging in the half-light of his
face; we exchanged youthful gifts; he
gave a gold bracelet to me, and
it sparkled and made my laughter
float to him on the breeze so sweet.
It was endless as a wedding
ring, and I was given to such
romantic notions. I gave him
tapes of his favorite songs, put
them into his hands. We sat on
a nearby park bench and talked for
hours and hours until dark
came and with it the moon so
blue and big in the sky and some
faint lights in the distance. We knew
then how feeble young love can be,
so we took our moments and rang
them like churchbells we'd never share,
wading bare feet along water,
throwing shells up with our toes, feet,
delivering smoke to heaven,
angel's breaths coming down to bless
this youthful, temporary gift,
as we moved through edges of time,
boundaries bleeding, our last dance.
Dormant River Morning
Light comes through opaque ice
in places on river
icicles floating then
sinking as they fall in-
to the frozen landscape,
this topography of
ice as we take our walk
tracing walks we've taken
before. A bit of fog
obscuring the trees, snow
over the hillsides, a
morning of pure razors,
edges sharp, all glazed as
silver knives, motionless and
filled with dangers hidden
and apparent, a
glossy world of sleet,
cold as winter moon-chill.
Dormant
Ashen colored
swamp, cattails, burnt
edges bluish-
black, this
swamp with white flecks
in mossy green--
reminds me of
what pain is like,
the dull blue-black
aches prowling far
into the bone,
nerves' blue edges:
dormant surface,
anger brewing.
Photo
wine lipstick
on
little bow lips
a
hint of plum blush
long
layered hair, waves
straight
and curls mixed
tan
skin gone white for
time
of year, winter
girl
in a spring time
sun
a bicycle
in
the concrete drive-
way
back then always
ran
or rode the bike
'round
the two-mile
loop
Bandaid on knee-
cap
coming halfway
off
scoopneck tee-shirt,
mint
green as new leaves
on
our palm tree. We--
twice--
transplanted
it
ventured far from
time
when this photo
was
taken. The young girl
I
once was dreamed big
dreams;
she might be pleased
I
made some of them
come
true and still work
on
others she dreamed of
then
still can see a
bit
of the magic
she
had in her eyes,
bright
and shining, hope
in-
side deep color
there.
If only I
could
clear her paths for
her,
give her advice
she
wouldn't heed then
from
anyone, yet
her
future self. I
still
have butterfly
ring
dream your sweet dreams,
young
one. You're a cool
breeze
a few bees will
sting
a few states to
call
home; never turn
to
despair, for you
will
survive and thrive
get
past all pain, make
all
around you know
a
softer touch than
they
usually
get
from the world;
know
there is a mix
of
happiness with
what
is sorrowful
to
come, but happy
times
will prevail for
you
I know this, for
sure.
More spring than cold,
more
green and blossoms
for
you, so keep your
dreams
going; laugh all you
can,
painful youth will
fade,
diminishing
as
you paint your lips
plum-wine.
