Thursday, August 15, 2013

What the Fairy Came to Say

She didn't want my tooth,
which was good because I had no loose ones,
and she didn't make my nose grow:
I was already a flesh and blood child
with an "A" in Biology class.

What she seemed to need from me was a deal of listening.
I had to curl up still on the chair,
hunched to bring my ear to the open window.
My breathing wafted her around like a hurricane
making it hard for her to stay on the sill.

She threw her arms in gestures, - little, pale and thin extremities, -
and stamped her foot with the tiniest tinkle
like a dropped pipette breaking in Biology class.
Her blue broad wings, delicate as gauze and shaped like tattered butterflies
draped and drifted behind her, following the tiny yanks of her shoulders.

I tried so hard to listen,
I did.
But the summer breeze from the window
carried her voice like a far away flute
above and around my head.

In leaning closer, I rested my cheek on the sill,
letting her loom as large as a paper clip.
Her words floated into my eyes like firefly glimmers
and when I woke, the gray day had begun without her.
Some dawns I think I hear her, half asleep.

I failed Biology class.

Tuesday, November 29, 2011

The Drought

The rain came plunging drenching after drought
and silence burst as sensual groaning frogs
released at once from dry encysted sleeps
began the rhythms sounded so beneath
the world's first trees.  Bromeliads and palms
embraced their roots in waters filled with songs -
but long ago.  Tonight in twilight I
am standing at the edge of time and pond,
peering like a primate at the sounds
that pulse and surge from shadowed reeds and roots.
Somehow the blood and feet take up the beat -
but on the edge of plunging I retreat
withdrawing from the memories of bones
to faintly hear, within our walls, their songs.

The Hawk and the Black Bird

Window glass jarred at the sudden thrust.
On the lawn's center by the bench
a Sharp-shinned Hawk
sat mantling her catch:
a Grackle lay stunned under her slender talons.
An hour before,
the Grackle had stood on the feeder
gazing and daring all comers.
His was the seed, the perch
the sun his shining yellow eye.
His the muted rainbow moving on his neck feathers,
an avian auroral display.

Now the Sharp-shin's eye
held the sun's gleam

and me

before she took flight with her prey hanging beneath her.
Below them, I waited,
a ghost to complete the trinity
wondering which one to bless.


The cardinals in the weeping tree
expect an appearance each new day.
The orange beaks gape yawning.
The black masks conceal only the tiny eyes,
dots shiny and without sympathy.
The cardinals wait in doubtful anticipation
fully cognizant of human unreliability.
When I manifest with seed
they flee the miracle like Thomas,
returning where I have passed over
for communion only
after the coming.

Night Weft

An owl glides silent on wings without whisper
and the moon gleams off her liquid eyes
flower-faced mistress on the night wind
silence, the shed door is dried of color
flickering mouse tails under, under
she swoops
she swoops
something slides over from life to not alive
one feather drifts
the moon fills her far wings
weaving the tapestry of each moment
weaving the tapestry.

Together in the Galapagos

When the tide of desires brought us in from the sands
to drift in clasping dances round about the islands,
we hesitated and wispish radiated tendril lights
like ctenophores in deeper waters than their comfort.
Until then, we had our castled shells, all on the flights
of terraced townhomes, real estate for crabs.
But now,
the tides have cradled us to ancestral understandings
from before the wild new things of fire and language.
We rock under the stars from pole to pole,
Ursa Major and the Southern Cross in one sliding glance
as we kiss,
then rejoin one warm gathering in the main deck lounge
of a tribe beyond the time of tribes
crammed and happy in our rocking shell on the sea.

Sunday, November 27, 2011

The Albatross

There is a sculptured perfection in this bird
that must come from the hours it spends
in perfect suspension
between the sky and sea,
for months out of sight or sound of land.
Only ships and errant yachts far below
smoke or bobble in the morning's slanting
and only the blinking lights flickering in the dark
under steady stars
mar the perfect circle of the horizon.
The air must slip cold and pure through the feathers
kissing the skin to awareness.
The wind must carry scent and sound in delicate messages.
The water below must hold the gift of food, but not rest,
for the sea's surging bounty may submerge the great wide wings
that need a cliff to launch.

So the air has made this bird
and shaped its body and mind into airstream flowing peace.
The sun gleams in the deep eye, a compass point of focus.
The Albatross is tender with forgiveness,
seeing our trespasses as tiny
from its still point on the wind.