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Saturday, July 13, 2013


Wyeth - The White Company

Waterhouse - Wind Flowers

Bok - nude in design


It was as if you had just left the room.
If I looked hard enough I swear I could
See the imprint of your heel on the carpet.

The door was slightly ajar, being held
By a breeze for a few moments, sunlight
Leaking into the room to dress the walls.

I stood up next to the bed waiting to hear
A voice, any voice that would indicate you
Had actually been there.  I must have been
Sleeping, holding the ribbons of dreams
In my hands like precious myrrh or water.

When I looked across the room to the mirror
I could see you dissolving into its surface.
I must have been wrong.  Such a thing is not


Thursday, July 11, 2013


Waterhouse - Miranda

Illustration for The Tempest
Simi - 1910-Dreamer's Tale-Bird of the River


They were lighting small lanterns
All the way across the headlands.
Ships were coming.  They
Had been seen from the pilot hill.

Bright flares on the tops
Of their masts.  The lights
They carried were of many colors and
Occasionally shot bursts
Of colored flame into
The high atmosphere
Illuminating the bottom 
Of the clouds.

The coming of these ships
Had been foretold but
They were not expected
To arrive in the dead of winter.

The children had begun
Behaving strangely about
A month ago and the Teal
Gulls were seen on the 
Edges of the Father glade.

At night the booming 
Of the fisher bells
Could be heard at
Curious hours of the night.

There was a hesitant
Music coming from the
Taverns that was neither
Joyful nor sad.  It held a
A great sense of longing in its notes.
We were unable to determine 
If there were words to the songs.
The crowds grew well into the night.

The ships arrived much past midnight.
Were these sailors Gods

Then, plucked from the night
And to be proclaimed
Throughout the land?

Their garments were magnificent.
Some of us could see 
Them, some could not.
Quickly there were stories of them
Before the morning came
People were waiting upon
Them for answers.
The ships glittered with lights.

In the morning they were but
Hulls abandoned and gray.
Peopled by shades the same gray
As the forged bullets with which
the world infects itself.

There was no conversation.
There were no oracles.
Glimmers ran softly up the sails
Like fairy lightning and
Nothing was forthcoming.

All day they sat in the harbor,
A kind of fungus on the water.
By nighttime fires were
Started on their decks.
They burned with sickly
Colors and drove flights
Of dark birds around
And around their sails
Even as they burned.

On the following morning,
Ashes on the water.
The children packing 
Their lunches and
Heading off for school
Whistling tunes and
Singing songs we 
Had never heard before.

By the end of the week
We were once more
Upon the beautiful
Hills gazing out to sea.

Wednesday, July 10, 2013


This poem is from THE DIMENSIONS OF THE MORNING originally published by Tom Kryss at BLACK RABBIT PRESS. San Francisco 1969.  In 2009 the book was re-published by RATTLESNAKE PRESS, POLLACK PINES, CA. as Rattlesnake reprint #1


She was thinking about the sky again.
All the sky things: clouds, tall horses
with silver manes and breath the temper
of all winds, stars and their small brothers,
rain and its sister sea, jewels and the
hopes of endless halls, of fish in them.

She thought the sky around and the spirits
of earth came to her, colored robes whirling,
speaking strange tongues and fishing out the sky
with questions of themselves, clicking and hammering
like typewriters, like men in the streets tearing
holes, like gunbursts that slam into the page
and die there, never showing their ugly faces
to man as more than words.

The sky changed, the robes descended and
long rain, the time of unrest, the gathering
of ways to one way began and she was sea
in herself, her many arms depending.

Monday, July 8, 2013



The hard songs come through
Holes in the night sky,
An impending electricity of purpose
Gathers into patterns, constellations
Remembered from dares we took
As children, stories around 
The night time fires,
The stars, reminders of our bone
Dust congealed within our sorry bodies.

Touched with grace for a moment,
They are able to form a mouth,
Then a music, then a welter of instruments.

We hear them as animal voices,
Frogs and loons, crow talk,
The coughing of a cat,
Slap of fish on quiet water.

Oh let us sing the hard songs.
Songs of goodbye and of parting,
Of winds on the moors and
Mists moving across bogs
where plants eat meat,
Dreaming they are gods,
Where love flees a room
Dense with violins and clarinet
Laments.  Pieces of loves across
Ages of time, dead ancestors
And friends turn from our embrace
To ride the night sky forever,
To pour through shining holes in the night sky.

Sunday, July 7, 2013


Scott G. Brooks


This room of bright morning,
Full of the drift come down from
The ways we have learned to speak with one
And another.  Oh yes, there were times
When one could stand upon the ramparts,
Whistling the rain down the windows, not
Caring what might be blown in to our
Sad feet.  Now, it seems things are different.

The cat crosses the alley.  It has no mind
For the dealings of man.  It has
Seen the light of oceans of fish.  They pour
Past its nose and fill the doorways of the piers
With a kind of knowledge you and I can only
Dream of; a wishing for the smells of our ancestors.

Oh sweet burden of standing this way
Before the morning.  Full of each other, the way
We want to be, I look out past the rain and its pools,
Past the drift of song caught in the puddles.  I am
Here with you once again.  We seem to understand
The language all this world noise makes.
It has a clarity known only to those who have
Loved a long time.  I do not recall any time ever
Being like this one.  Perhaps I am mistaken.
Perhaps this music is only the sound of being
Ignorantly profound, listen to the heart.