Mother Lode

I squat like a miner;

sift through rubble,

barefoot in Levis.

Memories swirl the pan ―

most of them look the same;

unfossilized, too liquid to keep.

Ruby lips. The American dream. 

Now and then a sparkle ― a nugget

looks up at me with human eyes.  

Clementine!  Can't take everything, darling.

Just a few. I pack it neatly in the box

labeled "Initial Boom".

Souvenirs line up like herring.

Gradually decompose,

bloom sweet and pungent;

fertilize a second chance ―
my destiny.

tk/July 2015


R.A.D. Stainforth brings my words to life...

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Pentimento

Careful consideration shows

traces of underdrawing.

Off-center.  Awkward.

Seed pearl tears dot the canvas.

Then a change of mind: 

brushed over with another venue.

Layers of new whitewash

show the transparency of my skin.

I look taller.  Three-dimensional.

Someone stands close behind.

There are curtainless windows.
Plenty of blue, because it is now.

tk/October 2014


R.A.D. Stainforth enjoys a glass and reads my poem...

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Self-portrait by Vivian Maier 

Defense Mechanism

September plays pick-up sticks with branches,

goldenrod turns the world upside-down. 

Summer hangs ripe, ready to get it over with; thumbs a ride.

I tell myself I will be fine if there is plenty of fresh air.

Leaves.  Kisses.  

I shut my eyes tight enough to see your face.

Inhale, count to one hundred,

listen to the advice of cicadas. 

Autumn trees drop everything in order to survive.

tk/ September 2014

R.A.D. Stainforth reads ... love the delivery of that last line ... 

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The Morn's Night

An hour ago,

I was a child of fables,

pokeweed.

A tongue roller,

chewer of grass―

I could graft an oak from a twig.

Meanwhile, it's another o'clock;

acorns drop from grown trees.

The moon bellows baritone;

omits the chorus,

replaces it with zees.

Vitruvian sweetness finds me,

springing spreadeagle―

wheel of honeysuckle.

I forget sleep;

shake out the pillowcase,

wrap it around my head

for a babushka―

sound a klaxon,

hail a hackney carriage.

Get to Falkirk.

tk/June 2014


R.A.D. Stainforth adds a bit of magic... 

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*A Game of Patience, 1937 by Meredith Frampton 

Feather

I watch the sky,

listen for you in the wind,

shake out my hair, open my shirt,

let rain have its way.

Shy clouds cover their eyes.

I pick up a pleasurable stone,

one you might choose to skip;

suck April from it,

taste distant fault lines,

hold it in the roof of my mouth.

I find a lone feather,

think how it floated down,

like a sleek ghost

from something wild, airborne.

Looks right in my hair.

I wait for light to change,

this stubborn season to end,

for a massive earthquake

to come to my assistance.

tk/April 2014 

Delicious read by R.A.D. Stainforth... 

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Dust

O! claustrophobic air―

apparent and busy in the sun.

Dust hangs in waves of spring,

a universe from the bliss of nowhere.

What fallen star, what robin,

what powdered sooth plays a second chance?

Follow flotsam to the horizon,

cross the bridge through gathering cloud.

Inhale motes and flutter-boats―

the balm of dusk explodes a single sigh.

tk/April 2014

Sexy read by a springy R.A.D. Stainforth...

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