graffiti

We drive by
and it's not the letters
that catch our eye, but
the curves and colours
of lines. Black
fills the gaps, shadows
the highlights, the greens,
the blues. They began
with yellow, now buried
in the darkness, hidden
as spray cans swarm
the wall, smothering,
until black is the new white
and daylight puts them on top.

graffiti

I would like you to

lay on the grass
sunshine on your skin, while I feed
you stars and moonlight,
watch you pet rainbows
and straddle mountains
you can ride until dawn
tomorrow. I would like you to sleep
and dream of whirlpools,
sparkles scattered on your fingers
that you spin into a necklace
I can wear when you are gone.

Keep looking up

Between the first floor pilings,
sunrise strikes the water. Oddly
orange, it casts an inner glow

into a home gutted. A solitary fish,
searches for food, finds a floating doll
still smiling with empty blue eyes.

It's lighter, the dawn, eerily calm
only the water rushing through the streets
belies the last lazy summer days.

If we keep looking up, we can believe
the day will improve.

The wake of Ike

The seat came from the coast road, concrete
mounds still stuck firmly to its legs. laid
on its back it looked like some star struck cactus
dragged through hay and netted in brown mesh sludge
the sea donated. It must have been some ride
to have washed three miles inland and settle
against the roots of the 100 year oak, a grey coffin
at its side. If the seat could talk,
would it ask to be put back, or to be left
on the roadside snuggled tight to people's possessions?

Paused

We are paused here, halfway
between heaven and hell
clinging to the landscape
like leeches, sucking the life
from the earth, unable
to stop the earth
from sucking the life from us,
pausing to take joy
in the smile on a child's face,
to pat the back of a friend
who's unsure which path to take next,
pausing mid-step to avoid
the pull of reason.
We are paused here amid the chaos
of choices and changes
that chain us to some other hot place
we can not escape.

Waiting

I remember you laying and listening
to the squeak of rubbered footsteps
as they walked the wide white halls,
remember your eyes moving to see

who it was that strode along
with such purpose, who entered
with such poise. I remember
the water held there, in your eyes

when the nurse lifted the blankets
and checked to make sure
your feet were warm, to make sure
that the skin that sagged over your bones,

was warm. I remember wondering if you
could feel their touch, their caring,
if you knew that they loved you too.

A more gentle era

I once looked at castles, wanted
their cool strength

that withheld the fight of swords.
I find the win, now, in the rise of steam

from my teacup, the smile
that a golden leaf brings,
the birth of praying manti.

Ike's visit

He raged and ranted,
deluged the shores
tossing trees and trash
this way and that, muddied
the streets, stormed
his way into homes
without so much as a by
or leave to rip roofs
from walls. He ravaged
a State but did not scratch
the surface of true
Texan souls.

A gathering

I don't know
if the hunch of distant clouds
will drift forever, aimless
wanderers crossing plains
where no mountains
ease their weight.

Blessings

Surrounded by storm clouds
I thanked Him for the lambs,
the calves that grazed
on green pastures. Looked
for the first Spring bulbs
and up to the sky to ask
how much longer
would I have to wait and there,
in the clouds, a heart graduated
from pink to red, from dead
to pumping, a blessing
to remind me that waiting
was part of life.

Girl/Woman

She has the drive
to join countries, the ambition
to walk from one to another
without looking back
and pondering those
what might have beens
that set pathways for others.

She thrives on joy
sucks it out of people
and spits it back
on pavements slick with oils
of previous past times.

I can see her painting rainbows
on the sky, no point waiting
for God to dip his brushes
she wants vibrant stripes
and she wants them yesterday

strong and unyielding and
it doesn't matter
that there are no shower clouds -
she will paint those too.

4th day of Spring

Soon there will be blankets spread
on paddock grass, buttercups
to place under chins.
Dandelions will stand tall
in the fast growing grass
of Spring and blue sky
will blatantly bless our land.
Soon warm Summer noons
will caress the ground
and fattening buds will explode
to give shade once again.

Reality, yours or mine

I follow the path to your door
on the map with my finger,

crossing land as if it were boulder free
crossing seas as if they were nothing more
than shallow puddles easily jumped.

Reality acknowledges the distance
but my mind sees each house,
checks each street number, each garden
and searches for your vehicle,
your footprint on the grass.

It is as if I stumbled headlong
into some new world that resembles
my own, reality seeming similar

and yet different because in yours
I am new, not caked with age
nor remembering less
than perfect sunrises.

The peace within

The days inside my head
are not the same as those outside
they don't contain the constant clatter of rain.

Inside, it's calm and quiet, that special peace
that falls just before dawn and
in the golden hour just after.

In there it's not hard to breathe
there are no tired limbs or
frustrations that create chaos. In there

the sun shines on a meadow
where an ice bucket and blanket wait,
a cool breeze the only concession
to winter allowed.

Given time

My lamp is lit at midnight
and you drive by, wondering
if my dreams keep me up.

I store them close by,
don't let them go
the way of nightmares
that curse me in some darknesses
and kindle my nerves in others.

When you see the light
it takes me time to untarnish
the silver it sits on, to polish
the dreams until they gleam.

Beyond the pen

Stacks of papers, collected
dreams piled on tables, beside
the bed, in drawers. white

monuments standing still
as if in proof of living skill.
All those drills, those exercises

that stretched muscles,
printed on paper that will burn
just as easily as memories.

The stacks grow. A mirage
of memories dedicated
to reaching a point

beyond the beams
where we all look
at least once in a lifetime.

The old house down the road

The walls of the house still hold
the roof, though their peeled skins
lay bare wood to the elements.
I wonder if history leaks
from those exposed boards,
if with each rain, a little memory
is washed away and lost
among rivers that race to the sea.
Around one corner, where
two walls almost join, a creeper crawls,
holding the boards together, green
leafed and purple flowered, a pretty
palette punctuated by the sun's arms.

Older Trees

It only took one strong storm
to uproot the hundred year trees.

Three stood, together
against the elements, the westerly
whipped their branches

and thinned the weak and dying
leaves from their limbs.
They stood in murky water

barren boughs swaying
and then they were laying,
roots lifted, limbs straight up

as if asking to be rescued
from this drowning.

The power above

You top off one storm
with another, and riding them
becomes second nature. Lightening
and thunder war above
and below the rain fights
in rivers to race to the sea.

Winter

Children are the only ones left
who find joy in the rain, who splash
in puddles that great streams of silver
poured onto the earth.

Strain shows in the wrinkles
between brows on mother's faces,
shows in the clenched knuckles
on steering wheels, shows too
in the lack of smile and
shorter tempers.

The children don't care for sunshine
not when rainbows are simply
something else that can not be touched,
they prefer making mud pies
to the music of bare boughs scratching
and the empty coke can that rattles
its way down the street.