old words

July 24, 2014

for the love of outdoors

A poem born of the summer. And I did spend time with a honey bee or two, coaxing them out of my bouquet and listening to the tunes they hum. 


The honey bee
and I
exchanged pleasantries
over a bouquet so new
he thought the blooms were still rooted.
I explained his mistake in whispers
and the rearranging of a coneflower
he had taken a liking to.
We talked about blackberries
and then the coolness
so rare in the summer tilt
of the Northern hemisphere.
He and I agreed
that the day’s clouds
would make exceptional
window-dressers since their
imaginations and mutations
were fanciful,
but elegant.

I mentioned I had seen
a butterfly
and he begged a detailed description.
“She landed on a coneflower
just near me, beside the one
I was about to pick.
Iridescent browns, orange stripes,
two blue puddles,
and a small bit missing
on the right wing.”
I never knew why he asked,
for he flew off
and I took the bouquet inside,
glad to have made the time
to exchange pleasantries

with the world on the other side
of doors.

July 7, 2014

Time Travel

I have been writing a great deal lately. Poetry, mostly. Some of it is good. Some of it is terrible. Some of it needs to brew for a while. Anton Chekhov, a successful writer, said these words that comfort my terrible poetry: “Only he is an emancipated thinker who is not afraid to write foolish things.” Hopefully what I have chosen to post is not of that material, however.
Only time will tell.

Time Travel
The far mountain line
peeks between
the balusters
of the heavily green forest
that descends gradually
down the mountain
to a field.
My hands remember
the feeling of this moss,
still clinging to the trunks
in a desperate embrace
that has eased
into habit.
My feet recall
the rooted ways
and small
stony rubble of the
path that curves
at the tree line.
I have loved these woods,
but oh,
the breaking through,
the pushing aside
of haphazardly slapping,
grasping limbs
and that final step
to western sky,
unfiltered sun
that beams in
and edges the trees
that climb the slopes
in a paler,
brighter green,
painting scales on the slopes
with its own trees
so the mountain
can remember it was once
a dragon,
and can swallow the
hollow metal wind machines
that ride its back
attempting to break
the mountain
by ripping out her tree hair
and trying very hard
to be still in
the her exhaling
gasp that ripples
through the field
at my
I watch those oats
in quiet ease
for they know peace,
want to know it