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
ahead
to wishes cast
from a bayou dock
deep in the stillness
of the black
with a casual glance
behind
knowing the pearl-topped
waves
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
heart
but her garden
grows
more beautiful.

a treasure
to her friends
and friend to
their treasure
she pours herself
generously,
sumptuously,
and they drink her
full.
her long stem
stretching
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
provides.

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
yesterday
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.

~rick

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

and,

what would we do
if one we had caught?

but we never did.
never
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

and,

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,
light
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.
~rick

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
like,
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)



rick~

Jumping From Clouds

How do we get from here to there and there back again and somehow make sense of it all? How did we get there in the first place? Maybe we just went to sleep one night and woke up to find our dream was real and our dilemma sure. Ah, if only one knew where Jacob kept his ladder!





today,
I jumped off a cloud.
soft you suppose,
and why would I,
you wonder.

but see you here,
it is only soft from below,
as it entices your thoughts
to dangerous levels
in treachery’s drift.

to those of us
who cower
from lofty advantage,
we only see
the hard below
and the black
above.

I mused of exploration
but how does one measure
depth
of cotton mirage?

I thought of
gathering,
but my pockets laughed
and my eyes
googled the result.

I thought of breaking
it’s spirit.
rope and ride and
wrangle the yahoo!
but it slumbered
to my threat.

perhaps,
I could accouter.
a sun roof?
no,
that would be redundant.

A stereo?
the thunder would laugh.
wipers?
the rain falls down,
silly!
whitewalls?
who could tell?

I spied a girl,
in a field below.

she was spinning shitties
for no particular reason
and no obvious audience,
save me.

she had a sun roof,
a stereo that knew
Kate Wolf
and whitewalls.

she cared nothing
of the rain.

So I jumped off the cloud.

but she was too fast,
too wild,
and I missed.

Now I ride the cloud,
but I can no longer
jump off,
or know fear.

I miss the girl,
and I miss the fear.
~rick

Storm On The Horizon

To see an approaching storm, especially in an alone morning, is to inspire my soul to pass beyond my body and grab hold of a thunderbolt and ride it to someplace magical. Someplace other than me and the chains the blue of a false sky have applied.




gravy black
in cauldron bubble
rising
inside out
in summer spill

slow motion rollers
Brutus
in leathered walk
and steel bands
of outward press

thundering
heaven’s prairie
it drives
the chariots of terror
with whips
of bone and feathered iron
across dreams
smothered in platinum

but rough cut
dreams
in leathered passion
thrive
and prosper
in the vibrato of fury

iron sharpens iron
and trembling
comforts fear
as one moons
to another’s terror
in twisted ambiguity

the daylight
peeking from corners
frames the somber
portent
of wild unrestrained
while assuring relief
through chastisement

This,
the place,
the cradle,
the hope,
the bed,
the tomb,
where thoughts
are bred
to be borne.

dreams to be inspired.

hope to be polished.

fear to be ridden.

~rick

Dragonflies & Butterfly Fish

It was a thousand years ago, and somehow just yesterday.

Public beaches, jet skis, fishermen and her to he on a hot July afternoon. She always was the one with brass balls and a way with water. His choices were obvious.

should we?

I suppose not.

I will.
I know.

is not my smile
enough?
yes.

is not the whiteness
of my raised chill
enough?
more than.

watch me.
see my hair
float, then lay.
see my arms
orchestrate
as humble wheat
to August wind.

this I see.

do not my eyes
paint the wet around me?

yes.
in deep-sea mascara.

The fish,
how they wag.
the dragonflies
who light upon my shoulder,
all speak approval
while to all others
I don’t even
~exist.
-
do I exist
to you?
yes.
the dragonflies say so,
and I believe.

this moment ,
this chance,
will swim to distant shores
in the wake of
butterfly fish.
and the coupling of blue-green
eyes
will fly
on the magic
of dragonfly wings.

yes,
my tears
that hide
and strain
behind my tame torn heart
say it is so.

so come to my depth.
I’ll light upon your hips
and teach you
what dragonflies
and butterfly fishes
have taught me.
-
will you?
will you come to my depth?
yes.

and he did.
and they swam.
and the distant shore
waited in vain.
~rick

The Golden Boy

hooves
upon hard pack gravel
spoke beauty
in time-scape

the fruit boxes
all in toss and stain worn
coloured the grey
of no match.

the loveliness
of the Mexican bride,

of her smile,
in the window of the rusted truck,
asking directions
from the Pennsylvania Dutch
went far beyond
digital ability

and painted the desert

of Kentucky gloom.

a thousand images
in a single frame
and yet-
it was the boy, always the boy,
the boy
with the strawberry-blonde
twist
and the smile
of a thousand golden joys
turned back, looking
over the buckboard
that froze time
and rendered hearts
useless
in the glory
of harvest nuance.

~

for his mind,

his spirit,

his beauty,

could see beyond our vision,

into a tomorrow

we may never know.

~rick