a junebug zoom and a cricket song       summer moonshine

restless thoughts       tiny beetles on my doorway

     an exchange of souls

i search impenetrable clouds

in the night gale

the hanging bells

the old, open gate

our shadows reappearing in the night       closest moon

spring breeze
children taking turns
on the new bicycle

dried flower
how short
that spring

            from a
forgotten
        corner

                            spray of roses

the first year

waking up

a new family

in my childhood home

raspberries fall on
              milky skin
baby giggles
        pop like balloons

broken pot
mother's old cactus
     still blooming

rocking into twilight

milk pools

in the crook of my arm

dark

cool air

her open purse

sudden ice
    the museum of a warm autumn
still-green leaves under glass

january candles

baby's first year here
mother's first year gone

    red leaves

     red birds

       flying

       falling

the gentle wind

first birthday balloons

Issa's angels

cardinal!
   her quick, short steps left tracks

       in the last patch of snow

our shadows thrown under her wailing face

                                the closest moon

the realty sign appeared
   just after
     the apple blooms

a bad winter

dreaming your blizzards
into cherry blossoms


-for the people of Japan

first the birdseed
then the birds
then the cats

snow patched shadows
the clear sky such
a gaudy blue today

long freeze

the neighbors file by
with their groceries
in the snow

birds in the feeder tree!
their gay little coats!

the shapes of the street
still and soft
under drifts

bustling branches
flying seeds and flakes!

haikuish or shortish, 5

bob dylan haircut
          and kerouac blues...
the wine, gone
     the pen, unused

haikuish or shortish, 4

can't!
single!
thought!
written!
stuffed!
cats!
boxes!
bitten!

haikuish or shortish, 3

walking on water
          try it and you get wet socks...
then comes the laundry

haikuish or shortish, 2

clear night sky
     our breaths rise
          to the thousand wishes
          burning overhead

throwaway poetry project, 6

i watch my children play in snow

it's wondrous stuff,
and beautiful,
with a weight
and the white
that lies right on the
dead earth.
they throw it up
over their heads
and let it come down
all around them.
they twirl in the flakes.
rediscovering each other,
they launch an assault,
the soft balls
falling from their bodies,
indistinguishable
on the drifts.
tiring of this,
they decide
to create
a man,
rolling up the parts,
and fashioning him
just exactly
the same
as them.
they come in from the snow
triumphant.
they watch over the man
through the windows,
all smiles
and red cheeks.
under the moon
i see him relax
back into the
white blanket,
loosing the parts
and stretching out,
indistinguishable
on the ground.

throwaway poetry project, 5

when writing an old-fashioned poem,

if you need to rhyme something with "orange,"

don't fret!  it's not true!

there's a word you can use!

there's a part of a plant called a "sporange!"

in similar cases of stymied poetics,

there's something for "purple's" defeating phonetics!

a word from the Scots,

it describes the lame hops

of one injured in rowdy athletics.

sporange:  

1. In botany, the case or sac in plants in which the spores, which are equivalent to the seeds of flowering plants, are produced or carried. Also sporangium.© The Philip Lief Group Inc.

hurple:

1. (Scottish) An impediment similar to a limp.-- Wiktionary
*note: does not pertain only to limps resulting from athletic injuries - ha

throwaway poetry project, 4

"my body is all eyes!"
and i know the god
of you

when they close
i tell myself there's
god there, too


*quote: Eliade's Shamanism (290), from an Inuit shaman's song

throwaway poetry project, 3

new post!
true post.
a blog
of logs,
cut through
rings of things
already past.
a mess of holes,
thirty-six poles,
it's an unfinished fence
leading nowhere fast,
charting only the bounds
of a soul territory --
the flags of times
lived in a single
life story.

throwaway poetry project, 2

zounds!
the hounds sound
hollow 'cross the heather.
walking there 'neath
violet clouds, swearing
violent weather,
a wind sends my cap
aloft and down, tipping
in a puddle.
tripping after o'er
the grassy mounds, my
fingers drip a wet hat red –
and strewth! there by my cap
i found blue figures in
the slipp'ry mud!
'sblood!