for-tune

yinyang
Because the hour’s late
and the smell of the air gobsmacked me
into the past
this is all I can leave here.

I am fortune’s child, and how that happened
is the mystery of my earthly millisecond.
I take her gifts
and give back a few of my own,
but really,
I don’t think it’s expected.

My bikes rarely get flats,
the shower’s done before the hot water runs out,
the alternator expired at a side-road
off the busy highway,
my mother and father were never mean,

And best of all,
I can carry a tune, for
what that’s worth.

light

IMG_5403

In the visible,
discerned by our face-camera,
blue can be grey
or green
if the frame changes color.
We are easily deceived by a pretty face
whereas
a blind dog can know its friend.

In the ultraviolet
we can discern
only by sunburn or science.
It
can kill us with tiny mutant cells
and also
show us distant stars in their massive youth.

The infrared
we discern with our skin
and go out for a picnic
on a warm summer’s day.

The x-ray
is totally like this.

xray-specs

shelter

A sense of place in a time of loss

Photo by Octodrone Maxilla

Shelter me

says the millipede to the leaf
as the air goes cold in springtime

Oh, shelter me

says the leaf to the twig
as the breeze lifts her fellows ‘long the climb

Oh, oh shelter me

says the twig to the branch
as the storm becomes less than benign

Shelter, oh shelter me

says the branch to the tree
as it clings to the strong wooden spine

Shelter me, oh, shelter me

says the tree to the forest
as lightning’s child razes her shrine

Shelter me shelter me

says the smoke to the air
as the last ash drifts dusty and fine.

Shelter me

says the speck to the millipede
as it settles to ground

and becomes part of time.

 

 

storm

storm

It’s pretty well-worn imagery,
but the storms really do roll here.

Seemingly from two directions at once,
the scooping wind is a solid presence.

The trees do a stadium wave up and down the street.

The sky darkens, slowly, from the northwest.
Local dogs
have fled indoors,
birdflight is comically controlled
chaos.

The cloud lightning is a tease,
pulsing but seldom forking,
thunder sounding but never cracking.
Always, somehow, behind the trees
and never overhead.

Too soon, only remnants,
complaining and ragged
in the distance

and it’s a little lonesome
in this dripping, scented quiet,
just one lone dog somewhere,
remembering.

Evva

Dale obit

Pardon me, my dearest friend,
while I for two minutes make your death about me.

Because they didn’t tell us our friends would die.

Maybe his friend, or hers, or theirs,
Maybe my mom’s and dad’s,
then my dad
then my brother.

But our tribe, the ones we choose, the ones
we lounge about laughing at dumb teevee with,

the ones who teach us to cross-country ski,
and always get us the perfect gift
and agonize with over yet another pair of shoes

And then cry with and
move away from and
who never listen to our excellent advice
nor we theirs,

the ones whose cores are so strong
forged in the fire of abuse, loneliness, and
unspeakable sorrow,

they

you

were supposed to prevail.

Because goddamnit

It’s all about me.