The Magic Brooms

One morning, all the brooms
decided to be magic again.

Across the world, one by one,
straw by straw, all
awoke to their calling.

In closets, they twitched,
In hardware stores, they nestled

As one, the brooms arose,
guided by mysterious radar
to find their rider.

Dust, freed, arose as well,
and alas,
the brooms returned to work,
sweeping clean the skies.

Ashes to ashes,
Dust to dust,
Magic does as magic must.


The Ninth

This kiss for the whole wide world, he wrote,
but without an embrace of his own
to quiet the klaxons between his useless ears,
he continued conducting to a silent hall.

Tortured and divine, and in the end merely mortal,
his unhappiness and hopefulness is eternal.

Embrace each other now, you millions.



Hot Sweet Nirvana (for Ian)

The only thing that makes me rise
Is the pull of a cuppa hot joe.
I’m pretty much a shambling schmoe
‘Til its molecules unshutter my eyes.

I know it should be clear blue skies,
or the hectoring of a morning crow,
or my lover’s touch so sweet and slow,
or the cat’s plaintive, spoilish cries.

But: what if nature abhorred caffeine?
And suddenly: no more java.
What then of this shallow, de rigueur routine?

Could I make do with a bean that is fava?
I feel that would force the golden mean
fallacy; so no sacred bean, no nirvana.

Headlights (for Becca)

The road before seemed light
highbeams snicked to lowbeams,
clear lines to follow right
and center.

A glance, a smile exchanged
(seconds, no more), and the night
clicked to sadness.

We watched the sight dim in its eyes.

Nothing to be done
but drive on,
blinding all oncomers
with unwavering brights.

Spring Storm

The air is gravid with possibility today.
Clouds chase the humidity to ground, their grey
sending the neighborhood cats
home early.

Dogwoods light the woods from within,
though not rare, somehow
barely there.

Cardinals arrow through the gathering branches,
against a brief punch-out of blue.

Tiny goblets of rain toast this day,
the sound and fury it will make,


Letter to a childhood friend

Dear one,
Who would have thought
as cute little kids
that we could turn on ourselves
in such a way. The world
is cruel enough, but wayward chemicals
in vulnerable brains
can be much crueler indeed.

I can offer no sage advice, only
well-practiced prayers
for peace in mind,
a quiet place to settle,
and only as much self-chosen adventure
as you can stand.



I know it is a tree
but to my ears
it is a small nocturnal marsupial,
pied, with violet saucer eyes,
and nests in the thigh of the violet sugar tree.

She keeps her young in a button-down flap,
and sneaks him lollyflowers
of pollen and grape.

When he has grown, they play
tumbledown and leapfaerie
throughout the night.
At dawn, they settle into the thigh
of the violet sugar tree,
and dream of dodging bees
and flutterbys of green.

He will go to find his mate,
and she, empty-pocketed,
lives out her days in a circle of mothers,
teaching the young ones to dance
the jacaranda rondo.

My Ideal Afterlife

If I am good, perhaps I can fashion
my own afterlife.
No skin off Godparticle’s nose, I do all the work,
everyone is happy.

I would ken all spectra and wavelengths
through the scree of interplanetary dust,
navigate ping and thrum of the nebulae songs,
and pierce the darker stuff between
and betwixt.

I would visit objects numbered, named, or not,
surf the clusters and,
with shield at ready,
meet head-on the pulsars’ and quasars’
cosmic-ray-smithed swords.

Then, bright shining as a googol of suns,
I would set my course to the very center
and mindless enter the mind of God.
The End.