dancing mists

picnic at pillow lake
four feet in the sun in the morning
where the evergreens shade the sand far from shore
we rest by Sentinel Fall
in the early summer
before the cottonwoods bloom
along the waterline
my hand extends for your kiss
the high forest watches the embrace
in an angle of full repose
we pause under the towers
of the north wall
the white day of noon
after the rain
heats our basket of fine fruits
and the dancing mists
cover your hair with jewels.

The Valley

Paradise Valley
the turquoise waters
rising temperatures and soft light
hard granite rock glittering in white
precious gold
meadow flowers unfold
in the early summer sun
frolicking frisky and fresh
Yosemite Fall
roaring echoing teasing it all
clouds of screaming blue spray
greening the eye
the eternal Ansel sky
a prolonged hush
whispering
quieting the rush
where lady bugs swarm
flying spinning sighing
red and yellow and wings
these are some of the many things
orange and purple and awe
it's not just what i saw
it's what i felt
the Zen masters teach
while eyeing the peach.

silly dog

deep into the windy spell of late autumn
the quiet reflection of an ambushing spider
climbs the bark of a silly dog

it falls on the still waters of a hand-dug well

a foot step nearby brushes the silence

in sweet soprano
i hear a cry

blushing softly the girl

with a blue tattoo
of a white tiger
on the prowl
walking over her left breast,

moves furtively.

the startled spider is trapped in the web
where a morning drop of dew
struggles.


the soft tattoo has no name
as the girl looks anxiously for the dog

who is now stalking the tiger.

silly dog.

ENJOY THE REVOLUTION

the revolution came;
the revolution ended
and on a January morning
by an unkempt bed
a radio with its broken dial
hissed the resignation noise at seven.
Tahrir Square emptied in a languid hush.
after the celebration and the great storm
ordinary people went hauling the dead, the dying, and all that blood;
the discarded papers, the unofficial hopes, the ideals
sat waiting for a taxi on historic Cairo street corners.
nearby a tea vendor sipped his brew, wondering.
i too watched them, under tattered banners.
meanwhile, waiting for the cleanup crew
were men in army uniforms with sharp interests
and even sharper wit with tanks.
then, later in the cafe
near the green cellar door
by the red vinyl Coca Cola cover
curious faces were sketched in black and white
as fate would have it.
simple martyrs drawn on an old concrete wall
their rows of eyes in shaded light watching near my empty glass
which i held loosely in the curling smoke of
frequent customers who were
opening and closing new packs of lucky cigarettes
all black hair and boasts of brotherhood
exchanging glances and twitter posts.
their ash trays were empty
but the air was full of dreams.
soon, the military council would watch a new sun rise
where once the desert sun watched millions
of  protesters from Egyptian cities and towns
who now rested on hard curbs and flat roofs
where Al Jazeera satellite could find them
underneath their ancient pyramid shadow,
still searching for honest work and a simple piece of bread.
tear-gas canisters rolled from view
leaving a scar on each forehead.
the revolution came,
the revolution ended
and it was crazy for a time
with women out at night, unafraid,
and young men in cars honking at the dawn.

spicy hot and mean

i didn't like the painting
maybe the proportions were wrong
something too big or too small
a woman too fat or tall
a canoe beached without a paddle
a girl riding without a saddle
it's hard to finger exactly why
the lines are low when they should be high
or perhaps the oils were smeared
anyway, it simply felt weird
i think my preconceptions
interfered
i wanted something from Sweden
what i saw was a sunset
with a gorgeous white egret
in the shallows of a calm tropic sea
the yellow bill, black legs and feet
were drawn well and neat
but the composition was too serene
i was in the mood for something spicy
exquisitely
hot and mean

the critic

while the critic ate his worm
he liked it most in a cold steady rain
upon the hour of a last hot meal
or a warm and tender embrace
which he never seemed to try
his hair was always dry
as a crowd of athletic walkers
walked on by without a wave
as they were looking for the group park bench
underneath a heavy-leafed tree
maybe an old stately oak
to escape his depressing soak
Brahms first symphony in C minor
could be heard by their kitchen door
as the oatmeal raisin cookie smell
tickled vibrating strings and a fancy kettledrum
atop an open summer meadow air
there is never an endless ghetto there
for the maker of the fresh peach pie crust
the tuner of a Steinway piano and a treble clef
or a painter with her colors and her calico cat
or a clever strategist and a scribbled score
for the flute player fingering with a strong heart
each important note escaping at the whistled start
while the critic ate his worm

sudden fate

the blue French Citroen
at the curb
in the dead of night
still missing one headlight
was idly waiting for the absent driver
intently knocking on the main wood door
of a grand city Maison
the entire reason
for his visit
was the slender beauty
and her long black hair
but the servant said she wasn't there
she was with her father
far away by many miles in Hue
the mother too was gone
and wouldn't return before the dawn
so the young man went to the Caravelle Hotel
and had a drink at the bar by twelve
he tried to sleep but couldn't
thought of driving north but knew he shouldn't
after all, there was a war about
& the hope of finding gas supplies wasn't great
so he fitfully tossed and turned
with visions of Thich Quang Duc calm and burned
who earlier seated slowly onto the cushion
in yogic lotus posture
inside his final pillar of fire
where the saffron flames danced ever higher
in an electric silence a hush
as monks and nuns pressed together
hands folded in prayer
crowds of Vietnamese stopped to stare
and soon a corrupt regime would end
but the war would continue
with more bitterness and sad tears
more horrible deaths for many more years.

Percy Bysshe Shelley

he had no heart to burn
and only one to give.
it was said by some
he lost the will to live;
others say his ship was rammed
or simply poorly built
in Genoa where wild roses
bloom but never wilt.
but what did he see
under the waves being tossed
that could have spoken
to the radical genius lost?
was there a last strong line
of allegorical note
he might have uttered
toward the bottom of his boat?
was Lord Byron mad that Don Juan
was no longer floating?
the Tory newspaper
The Courier meanwhile was gloating:
Shelley has been drowned
and "now he knows
whether there is God or no."
but they were foes
not friends
as were his beloved Mary and Claire
and John Keats and Leigh Hunt
of a literary circle in England near where
he wrote The Revolution of the Golden City.
Prometheus Unbound was completed in Rome
before he set sail from Livorno to Lerici.
Tragically, he did not get home.

you know, don't you?

you know, don't you?
the roots are in a fertile soil
share the nutrients
suck the sun
sip the water
deflect the shade
or cry for more
with a voice that has cried before.
you know, don't you?
in every garden a good thing grows.
the hour for the gardener is always
the hour for the soil.
every flower appreciates the toil
the effort
the pruning
weeding and feeding.
will my flower laugh when I giggle
in passing
or am i asked to be the flower?
you know, don't you?