Meanwhile, Young Men Get Drunk at the Feast

Acorns drifted off,
slept long, and one winter woke
Rip Van Winkle oaks.

Stiff, sore, poor wretches!
Bitter winds and burning stars
keep them from their dreams.

From ‘Songs of the Marshwiggles’: II (Spirits)

Nine thin old tall tales:
nine slack jawed drunk reeling pines.
Wind is alcohol.

A Fine Phrase

I saw a fine phrase
written lightly in the sky:
Eagles hovering.

Birds’ wings’ feathers’ King
glories in meaning things. As words
once meant light, light meant

words: Let There Be Light.
Remember? God’s story is. 
Read it and respond.

How I Know the Universe is Infinite

A small frontyard tree
is a house of many rooms
to a chickadee.

Insomnia

Let the wind write rain
on the windows; I could use
a bedtime story.

Sunset

A murder of crows:
The insolent dark that flocks
to peck at the sun.

Streetlights, grieving sons,
sing sorrow, stand watch, until
Morning comes again.

Scheherazade’s Surefire Recipe for Health, Wealth and Happiness

Bottle a djinn
for wishes, or find a seed and
put the tree back in.

Promethius in Alpine Landscape at Dusk

Seconds: ragged breaths:
puffs of smoke in the cold.
The air is bitter.

Evening shadows stretch
the minutes thin, and thinner.
Clouds pass. I am old.

I have counted sheep.
I have sung the Iliad
backwards and forwards

but I never sleep –
morning will descend to eat –
I have often shrieked.

Recycling

Driveway’s end, graced by
Wednesday’s standard offerings,
(blue boxed, well sorted)

I have not the wit
to haiku you: you deserve
better than garbage.

Let the trucks come to
carry out the ritual;
I shall write cliches.

 

Hope

a tired wetland sleeps –
but inscrutable herons
have not given up

hunting for what was
lost – bright eyed as madmen,
quiet as rushes,

stooping now and then
to check behind the grasses.
I hope they find it.