Dragonflies

After the red goulash with pork and sauerkraut
came floaters tiger striped with a show of wing
sour in the grapefruit sky but with uplifting flits

that demanded palms lifted too in supplication
to a funny green moment joyous and wordless
when the dragonflies dip and mystify at sunset.

What do children think of when it rains?

It's only water falling from a grey sky
which purple striped umbrellas make
funny in a summer warmth when thin
shirts call awake that slumbering sigh.

Going for a smoke in the wet grass when
lights tend to flicker & deny a needy feed
of the monkey, a graying annoy that now
crashes in a minute by a then pouring sky.

In the blink of an eye a rainbow appears,
split by the pale jagged flash of lightning,
when moments earlier in the black crush
excitements seemed a more pressing joy.

Brushing a ringlet one, two clasping a goldfish,
what do children think of when it suddenly rains?

Nothing Was Explained

Nothing was explained about the overture
or anything about carpentry, else melodies
would have been rabbited into harmonies
and a proper house have risen rafter pure.

Tophats garnered in a graying church yard
spoke little about the sand that chucked him
into another silver place where cycles shim
cry into galaxies grown past reddish beards.

The black fluttering arises out of a long mirage
of ice that shimmers in the heated desert land,
reeks of diesel that, seeped from ancient sands,
brings dry vibrations that, deft, deflate his visage.

Chiming zills are struck until from nubs a riches blood
flows into a dry wadi where his ooze alone once stood.

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.