Old oak cannot easily flex

Ain't gonna fake it as white seagulls fly are
flown into black vultures that turn on high.

Seen a caterpillar blue reaching also for sky
back legs stiff poised, feet in a grasp unmet,
poignant beads seeking, widely, all the rest.

(A butterfly poses in yellow and black for
a red-headed girl born to speak to it best)

Better use new hickory, old oak cannot easily flex
when quanting a punt across the cold morning dew.

The shoreline is only the clouds

The shoreline is only the clouds of where you want to be
in the pink and orange dawn where rocks mark dark shores.

Later, when the inferno also rises burning red and pitiless,
a watched pot most certainly boils.

Where is the calming thunder?

Signs aroused by curled pale fingers

Signs aroused by curled pale fingers asking what's
this ghost most risen hard in a handless hoar mist,
a barely heard mute static of 'maybe' or 'yes' or 'no'
or a bit lowly muttered about onions fried to crisp.

A recipe blown down a foggy street in tatters
as it mostly seems a page or two were missed
or hid by blue stone cloud burst cobble shine.

Chop or mince or dice or slice, it hardly matters
now. Whatever else just watches peeling dreams.

Dreamy, pungent smells, whetstones glisten,
thin white wisps, pale sapphires, water drips.

Watching through the cardboard tube haptically
turned, the colors are fantastic signs aroused by

Chimin'

To plumb the rare earth metallic way
in a sweat of silver beads profuse,
in a dark smithy with the huffing
down ceremony just pearl hidden,
to feel the bell as slid to the hot left
and cast round right so best to sing:

chimes ring truest in a morning wind
calling again through wet white birch
begging free limits of sinew, a drawn
dawn breath ringing shine bark tones.

Chimes ring clean in quiet harmony too
when white is a here now silence carry,
a chaste escape echoed over noise tops.

Metal too is hammered to chime again
when speech fails under noisy times-
but the breeze speaks quiet truths in
the white past if only you can pause.

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.