The Mountain Poem

The Mountain Poem(march 17, 2023) Today,when I started,I meant to walkthrough the new mountains,where sharp edgesthrust upward.Always embarrassed at their nakedness,the peaks have now slung hasty,below the shoulder,a soft garment of greenwhich teases another season to life. It has been winterand hibernationfor the longest time,with everything visible disguisedby a transitory puritythat now blackens and shrinksunder

A Package Of Value

I put away dulled pencils,and the greyscribblingthat screamed back froma near-emptypage. Heeding the howling not,I stepped backfor a momentof what I claim isair. Habit drew me,distracted, to thekitchen,to the stoveand to brief wispsof a sick sweet smokethat might provoke in others,urgent need for caution.Not me.Thus, I grow fatfrom simple constipation. As I laboured atthe pots

The Guest May Never Know

Folks say that it was God,Himself, who bent the sunalong it’s track,sent the other starsand planetsfrom or to then back. A store-front preacher,whom I know,reads from a bookthat’s very old,breathes a quiet soliloquy. The ancient talesdo comfort him andI don’t flat-outdisagree, ‘causethings more strange thansomeone’s super powers,science says, must be. If Quarks with charmdon’t ring

The Clock Alone Has Time

Time,the shining mother ship,transports our trusting souls,aloft, a-sail,across the dome of space. Wind and circumstance,by strong or gentle motion,bend what they are passing,so can time be proven.(A thing was here that nowis there. I am baldwho once had hair.) Contrariwise,I true believe,we never leave the moment.There is no was andwill no futurecertain be,though ebb andflood,

The Proof

Suppose it true,our solitary home a spinning rock,flung across entiretyat fantastic speed. I can almost feel thewind of it,loose hair much likea comet-tail of frozen bitsas timeand every precious minute lived,flows out behind. This is a dazzling idea,whereGod and love andpower and fortune,win and lose andmighty oceans,taxes and war andconstitutionsmeannothing.The proof of paradiseis imagination.

The Invention of Plastic/Sleeping In

I’ll betcave men caught forty more winksat the end of a night.Og may have said,as, at this moment, I yet might,“Hell with it, today!”since the breakfast firewas a bitch tolight. In cave days,folks had basic hurdlesand nothing more to dothan eat or make loveand sleep until the sleepingwas through.In this day,with complex social machinery,we make

At The Deaths of Two Children

At The Deaths of Two Children During a haunted day,heavy grey sketched shadow cornersonto a kitchen scene complete,where home’s Formica table,stood as balance point surrounded. On the sideboard,a wooden spoon dripped slow,resting, it’s brief battle done.The smallest voices echoedsomewhere off, amongmuchricherflowers. Shoulder to shoulder they sat,deep sorrow creasing more the browof these familiar witnesses,whose empty

Gaslight Gratitude

I have: Gentle birds and twitching squirrels, spare trees, winter chill, clouds, fresh air, moon over the hill.I desire: Sun to shine and a day or two extra time.

Moon Is innocent

What shines as moon isdead rock,in science theory coalescedof material cast from earthby the violence of agespast. Its surface cold,at core, like earth,the moon boils hot.That is, perhaps,why Shaman, priest and Gypsy claimthe moon has soul.It does not. The moon’s an empty mirror,round, reflective…staunch opponent to theover-heated sun’shurled invective.Between these twoare push, pull and season,jealousy,

Revelation

Tired summer stripped off,quitting the trees earlier each dayuntil a disguise of green droppedin bold patterned,bright coloured skirts downaround bony knees. The hidden places are shown. It now appears to the naked eyethat beast and bird, by nature knowing how,built nests high,collecting bunches of warm things,dry twigs, torn fur, used feathers and,stolen from the nearby