After the green god called

What you call the screech of redwing
I call harmony.

Where yellow claws might rip flesh
I feel a tender hawk.

Far from the black tarn of human eyes
I stand rooted in soft fog.

In a white breeze blown upwind
I find a tickling that, finger funny,
ripples through my uplift leaves.

Chartreuse Then Becomes a Lady

Chartreuse then becomes a lady,
on the domed throne she waits
wondering what the calligraphy 
about an itchy silent etching is-

a pipe glows quiet red from our
sticky sweet scoop of black pod sky,
where there's only here and there 
and there and here and only now.

A peacock might be coming soon.

Burnt Korma

If, languidly, the afternoon was lost
in a celebration of the sun god and
the simmer of spices and coconut
left too long on the burner burnt, it

could not be said that all was lost
for some sweet juices remained
to be licked from the boiling pot.

If there was a veil

If there was a veil that diaphanous mattered
it might be true that blue was colored wrong,
but if blue is colored wrong all hope shatters

so, down to the swamp to amble around frogs
stepping over mucky sucking pancake batter
finding in green cricket mud a choral throng.

The long blue days

The long blue days are starting to yield,
whisped away by orange fingered rises
tracking to a north unborn dawn meld
with eyes blackened by night surprises:

tracking transits of sherbet not melted,
eyes behind our earth see Orion belted
when only a silver moon seems to glow;
the jagged line is still pine dark though

a brief trill in darkness brings chickadees
unsettled by a sense of dense fever coming,
with puffed feathers brown hid come to be
a shrilling harbinger for nascent numbing.

The cheap chair unfolded once in squeaking
a platform for