Long tendrils pry into the cracks
Between the stones to plant their flags
In conquered ground,
So every year about this time,
I war against the ivy vines
I planted here.
And as I pull the clinging green
Encroachment from the wall, I think
Of good intent
That goes astray and trespass
That overtakes the peace and
Vanquishes the heart.
within the ivy
shadowing my garden wall,
as if appointed
by some keeper’s unseen hand,
a hidden, speckled thing,
light as rain,
heavy as a promise,
silently reminding me
that sweetest songs
are often those unheard
Let the juice
Of this ripe summer
Drip from your chin
Onto your crisp white shirt.
The vine grows full
And no amount of tying
Can hold a weighted globe
From its determined fall.
Slice these days
With your sharp knife,
And sink your face
Into the sweets of time.
Only your breath,
The blade you wield,
And your crisp white shirt
Will remember
The red, ripe seeds
That bled from
This abundant
Summer vine.
I went walking with the wind,
Blowing through the bowers,
Floating far afield,
Following the flowers.
I ran before the rain,
Skipped ahead of showers,
Played along the path,
Whiled away the hours.
I was climbing to the clifftops,
Traversing mountain towers,
Standing on the summit,
Praising nature’s powers.
So sorry for the Sunday
My wandering walk devoured;
I welcome words of worship
If found among the flowers.
hollow footsteps
stop and start
and stop again,
pacing off
the day before,
the day to come;
a young girl
leans her head
against the chair
and cries in rhythm
with the young one's
pull and tug;
old hands
tremble at the lock
that holds them,
cages him,
while strangers
snore in bedrooms
down the hall;
beneath the bench
two arms, two legs
a heap of rags
and bags seep
alcohol and other
fluid death;
a siren
cuts the night -
rifts, high and long,
scream someone’s
greatest fear;
alone at two a.m.,
I drink the dark
and shrink with
hearts that scuttle
in the night.
White socked boys
in rolled up jeans
slick their hair and
sway and preen
while teasing,
petticoated girls
swing their skirts
and twirl their curls
in time
with the music
at the Teenage Corner.
We belly crawl
the littered path
clap hands on mouths,
try not to laugh,
beneath the porch
we quietly crouch
to watch them court,
making time
with the music
at the Teenage Corner.
Danger circles up above
flipping dimes and
keeping time,
brushing multicolored skirts
against bare legs
that tease and flirt
as they roll
with the beat
of the music
at the Teenage Corner.
We hold our breaths,
and cover our faces,
fearing and longing
for the days when
we will own
the summer nights
and the magic jukebox lights
and the dreams
of
and the mystery
and the music
of the Teenage Corner.
I said those words aloud just now
To the open air. Robin didn’t answer;
He didn’t seem to care.
"Oh, ho!" I thought, "Your little brain
Has soon forgotten how he came
And flushed you from your evening nest
And ran you crazy like the rest
Of the birds he used to rule."
He’s in the ground, and like a fool,
I sit alone and think on how
I said those words aloud just now.
This hand is tan?
It’s green, say I, or other hue,
As real for me as tan for you.
What of the man who has no eyes?
Does color not exist, or does he see
Reality but with a different twist?
In truth, there is no contest.
If no contestants try
To win the prize in others’ eyes,
Then what is second best?
In truth, there is no beauty,
Though poor John Keats has said,
But truth denies where beauty lies
And Keats, alas, is dead.
In truth, there is no reason
Nor rhyme behind this verse
Beyond the thought that this was wrought
Because a lie is worse.
Taken by an evening chill,
I leave my sun-soaked seat,
Forsaking hummingbirds
That trouble trumpet vines
And bumblebees that startle
At their sudden rise and fall.
Conceding feeders to
The scrabbling squirrels
And serviceberries to
The reign of mockingbirds,
I force my trembling self
To pause as life,
Unshaken by the coming
Of the night,
Grows dark against
The purple evening sky.
Take a bit of creosote,
soak a wooden tie,
press snug on a gravel bed
and spike it in the ground.
Do this and do this
‘til all you can see
as far as you look
looks like piano keys,
moving to a pencil point
far down the line.
Now you are ready to
lay a penny down,
or even better yet,
to dance to the sound,
heel first, toe next,
heel now again,
arms spread out,
ready to fly
west to
where you can see forever,
not just around the bend,
where the sun comes up
right out of the land,
where the sun goes down
in the field behind,
where you can hear the whistle
long before you see,
long before you think it’s time
to think of heading back,
long before you run along,
pacing with the clack,
arms pumping
knees rising
cheeks blowing
chuff chuffing,
long before you hook your arm
on that rusty rail,
long before you swing on up,
grinning from the feel
of the run and the journey
and the warm metal bar
crooked in your arm
as you watch from the car
the smooth, flat land that
rolls beneath the wheels.
Just a bit of creosote,
soaked into a tie
pressed snug on a gravel bed,
spiked into the ground,
just one penny flat,
or even better yet,
just one kid dreaming
of dancing to the clack.
