Cold rain falls in the river, flows down to the sea, gets into the skyline, circles endlessly. Same old rain on the wind, same old pain in my soul.

Wednesday, September 23, 2009

She Dances To Moons

I wrote this for a precious friend, she of so much giving and caring. She has her family. Her faith. Her friends. She has a spirit that shall never grow old and that is her greatest gift to me. I only wish I were a better writer for her.

she waltzes with moons
in a garden of words.
one hand to
the red ripe,
the other
to vine.

a look up
to wishes cast
from a bayou dock
deep in the stillness
of the black
with a casual glance
knowing the pearl-topped
have graced her yesterday
before leaving
for another’s youth,
another’s tomorrow

she loves where
she’s been,
she’s been where
she’s going
and she trances
to second-hand books
and far away looks

love is flawed,
this she pens
in her palimpsest
but her garden
more beautiful.

a treasure
to her friends
and friend to
their treasure
she pours herself
and they drink her
her long stem
to the nectar
of a dragonfly’s ebb
while we rim our finger
and lip the sweetness,
only to
cherish the taste
of her untamed garden
and fevered library.

she dreams,
still, as before.
Bohemian and cut-offs
seventeen forever
and taller than the clouds
and wonders,
and grapples
with the answers
an indifferent bayou

and she dances to moons
with fat red tomatoes
with skinny arms
to her skinny legs
in her garden
of words.

and her garden grows more beautiful
with every dance
and every verse.
pictures and poetry
Stevie Nicks
and morning glories
and tomorrow

A soft, sure smile
She to us
us to her
cupped hands in drink
arm to waist
a garden walk
with a very special friend.

Tuesday, September 15, 2009

I Miss The Smell Of The Water

New York City, Paris, snow-capped peaks and lovers long gone. There are many things we once knew that embed in our souls, taking root, mooring loosely but sure. I miss many things I once held close. None more so than the smell of the water.

did they laugh?
to us?
at our legs?

or the popcorn,
the stale,
white miniature clouds
of buttered delight
that always
drew their beg.

the gulls-

how they made us laugh
and run
and chase


what would we do
if one we had caught?

but we never did.
really wanted to.

~ ~ ~ ~

they held us,
but loosely so

so rigid,
so mariner ancient,
in their anchored stand.

and we played upon them
and the sea
played upon us

the rocks-

we swam
or nearly so

and she held us
in broad bosom bondage
but never too tight
and always cheerful,
in her wake.

we walked the barren beaches
on naked twilight sands,
and cake-walked cliffs
to distant foghorns
and morning bells
of drunken chime
in sparkling charade


we got hot dogged
and potato chipped
to wind unfurled
and too many flies
proficient in the game.


hot dogs here
are just Wal Mart at it’s worst.

the barren beaches,
cover my blighted heart,
crab picked
and starfish skeletal.
church bells of empty souls
toll for truck horns
of impudence.

and the gulls,
those gulls,
to another’s popcorn,
another’s rock,
another’s dream.

I miss me
when I was young.
I miss you
shadowing the horizon
as the moon watched,
tender eyed.
I miss us,
when all we needed
was all we wanted
and that we had.

And I miss the smell of the water.
in your hair,
in your kiss,
in your soul,
in my heart,
in my now.

Tuesday, September 8, 2009

Boldly Goin To The Moon

This is what happens when you don’t get enough sleep. Or any sleep for that matter. You start believing, silly twit you! Webster wrote the book for a reason and the moon is just a rock. Now go bake cookies and watch basketball. These are the things of substance. The things of Earth.

I think I’ll go to the moon today
and visit William Shatner
I heard he lives there
for the zero gravity
and ocean views

he looks good for his age
don’t ya think?
sure the botox makes him puffy
but hey, eight billion miles
across the boldly goin ain’t chickens feed.

anyway, I like the moon.
I might even claim it. Manifest Destiny
don’tcha know
I’m here-it’s here, it must be mine.
think that’s how it works.

friends have gone there
and returned all smily doodled
and dreamyland starstruck

I wanna be all dreamyland starstruck
and sappylicious terrific.
maybe open a starbucks
virgin territory, fer sure.

I wonder if it rains on the moon?
just star dust and pissywallows I suppose
and the water would just fall off
in gloppy cloppers anyway

can you tan on the moon?
do they have their own language?
on tv, it’s always seventy two
and English no matter the planet.
what a marvelous phenomenon

where was I?
oh yes, the moon!
would I find my dreams
on the other side?
would the stars be within my grasp?
would the train be on time?
or would it just be a clop of dirt at which dreams are hurled
and piddlydust fairies play bridge with William Shatner

I wanna go to the moon
my moon, our moon
the one you told me of
where dreams matter and want reaches
beyond yesterday’s decisions
and tomorrow’s good sense

I don’t wanna see Bill there,
let him get his own moon
on Vegas stages and silly studios

first we’ll plant a tree
then a garden and goldfish pond
and build a starliewinkle cottage
with green shutters and a fine patio
for evening viewings of earth
and all it’s silly goings on

we’ll tell each other silly jokes
if Bill Shatner farted on the moon,
would they smell it on earth?
ha ha that’s a good one!

no, seriously
we’ll do it
it’s a date.

we’ll go to the moon
and we’ll find our tomorrow
on breeze of chocolate sapphire
and emerald peppermint

we’ll dance to Jupiters wind chimes
and Saturn’s rings will anoint us

mercury will be our nightlite
and earth our used to been.

bearlymarlo paw paws will be our lunch
and hickorysnaplle parlydorps our supper
we’ll learn English and teach our goldfish the backstroke

You shake your head
you say no?
such things cannot exist?
but you told me they could
you told me they would
if only we’d believe

oh, yes, I remember now
belief is that thing I read about in that book
the one bout pissywallows and gloppy cloppers
and star trek enterprise
silly me

there is no moon
nor life beyond breath
William Shatner is just a silly old man
who farts on the earth

and dreams?
clay pigeons for cruel sport
and Disney dollars

but it was a fine idea, wasn’t it?
yes, silly one, a fine idea.
now hush and go to sleep
sweet dreams.

(I first posted this back in the spring but pulled it within an hour. I like it though and have decided to let it grow wings and fly-even if only to crash. Take care)