Sunday, January 30, 2011

Galveston Island (2011)

Motel shroud sheet thrown
down cheap on shore sleep,
the grave sea grass now weeps
a shrift white on shorn gown.

Wait a minute.

And in a minute rise to wait
the footboard is overgrown
to an iridescent blue marsh,

a tricolored heron posed so
blue becomes transparent,
is rapt through lifted sheet
because there's no one there
to cough the fluff cotton down
or downy shades poised now.

Perhaps inside a halo will burst-
no it's kept elsewhere where.

And there's none but a dream of
hurricane rustpaneled amphitheater
importing beauty to salty marshes.

One man lives in a bowl.
others on shorebird stilts.

Pastels for the common folk,
stone for the stone bishop lift,
a dumb wait for a stony heart.

Romance on the third floor
but you're not lead to see
the green patina or scarlet glass,
just a boulevard of sparkplug stores
and a statue for tall revolting heros:

the seawall has never loft enough
to stem the brown surge will.

Friday, January 21, 2011

Mississippi Sandhill Crane Refuge (2011)

Where the grass trail runs savanna gold in winter's mood
the trunks quiver as silver ghosts on trees at solid rest,
so tranquil above the blue water veins of Castille Bayou
and the only sound if you stand stone still is quiet breath

measured in time by the distant shrieks of hiding kestrels.
Here the plants are yellowgold pitchers of deadly nectar
that the summer flies are not scaled to fathom but willed
to a slow leeched death as salts dissolve in season's fare.

Here cypress roots wrap to jealousy around liveoak
and never never let go were tight love to drop its leaves
without the thrust of a season to guide the acorn's arc
in a close embrace that will sometimes clush the skies.

Left on the table cut glass is an emerald found apart,
scattered to crown the picnic leaf in aptly lying art.

Wednesday, January 12, 2011

in memorium for a rainbow

Saw a half massed spirit of passed friend
though hard salties on the iron rack alcove,
the board with its steamy legs and blown
fibers scary nowhere as a prism's ghost
after a purple day's pursuit, clockmaking's
timely arc icy tucked in a terracotta tomb:

it's just a reflection from the womb, you said.

And damp over the koi pond a brick bridge arched
leads to Otto's ruin amid a dispenser of fiskefoder-
for a quarter you can recover the past in a mossy pond-
one route with many names covers enough tears for now.

A white hearse with a horseshoe turned on the rear
dirty lid in need of washing of course a christening
in a motel that was void of expected chrism dipping
the washer dryer combo dripping under awning rain.

So we move on damned,
faces covered in red wax asking for remembrance.

Wednesday, January 5, 2011

Maybe it was not a

spot requiring ask at first,

prior the cowled grins fell limp
into coal carved melanin ash,
scorched brick orange grime
they came back one, creak footfalls
slipping past cabled green walks
where a coral snake slithers, asks
of palm filtered light oh! holy day
to please wind the ring's handless clock
in black some fire dappled timeless way.

Or so it occurred to me.

They scattered to nim an emerald eye
in a red clutch of mangrove shadow
knotty near the block house umbra
Spanish moss moist with hidden life.

This should never have been touched
or used for the crispy sacred kindling.

The flight of a sole mosquito
sang the constellations cold
enough for klaxons to be sound
lights clicked on again anguish.

The moonrise was so much later than I guessed.

Equinox, the strong north west wind,
holds no regard for latitude,

or these funny little haps of solstice.