Poetry

It smelt of cacti bones

and maybe something earthy;

a pungent inhale turns

sweet to the taste.

All the people I have ever known

were drawn in semi-circular

fascination, in which a lion lay

It p(y)urred

obscuring gemstone skies,

devouring my eyes

Arizona nights like Arizona days.

Fire fell from the treetops

after the morning rain,

and for a moment it was

1953

A television program in

terrestrial view

broadcasted a beech tree.

They fell with

pirouetting precision

in front of me,

and I fell for them.

Sweetness of life,

cradling and lifting,

speak to the silence as the wind blows.

Ambrosia for the living

from springtime’s labors,

soothing in the

Peridot sunlight.

And when you die,

arise from your flesh

a magic wand, pirate’s sword

and an explorer’s trusted staff

a night lit canvas

reminiscent of

needles and lipstick,

shutter-shy in my

eyes of infinite

Innocence

x marks the phantom

pain west of stars and

sensitivity.

sunshine calls my name;

wistful serenades,

Longing

the trees whisper my

secret desires

as yellow flowers

blossom yearning smiles,

i know nothing but

Omniscience

daily rituals

echo in pairs for

the right time to dream,

impatient wishes

to promises so

Venust

reinforce my words

with the softest lips.

padlock hands, left on

twelve, impressionistic

windows, sun and rain

Entranced…

as chronos paints us

with color schemes of

blush pink, gold and blue.

synesthesia for

the immortal and

Youth

artemis rides the

golden chariot,

reminiscent of

permeating warmth

rendering distance

Obsolete

time travel to a

blanket fort, a splash

of sea foam, hole-punched

obsidian… where

the universe meets

Us

I remember the airport

the goodbyes

long talks and car rides

new screensaver so that my eyes

may rest, crumble, cry…

create a new culture

by surrendered conditionality,

a chrysalis in a shade of

sunflower yellow,

bliss, hope, happiness…

How I wish

to time travel

to tell you one more time

“I’m proud of you”

Rain against leaf clad earth and

the smell of fallen mesa oak,

damp with possibility

and promise

Kneeling in the soft ground,

I pray in a riparian temple…

Give my thanks to the lichen that

carved into ancient granite

where my fingertips now caress

opportunistic bushy spikemoss,

eager to soak up moisture from

craters in the rock

and grey sky. No heavens compare

to these skies, and

earthly rot…

where life can be given

and taken

I haven’t decided whether it's cosmic irony

or deep longing that brings me back to this

field of desert blooms

funny the framing of a flower;

to one a bringer of life, a beginning...

to other the end

… I wonder what they are to me now. this moment,

a reminder of everything lost

A perennial pain of sunfaded pleasures

as distant as the annual brittlebush, and

california poppies..

the bluebells, sand verbina, lupines…

desert sunflowers and evening primrose, even

they know

to exist only in a moment.

the past is a byproduct...

tomorrow doesn’t exist...

where does that leave us in

this moment.

in a series of infinite, only

one

can claim itself to be true,

a circle immeasurable from start to end.

we find ourselves in cycles, dizzy

from ever changing currents,

and ambiguous to direction.

why does life grow if it can simply exist? if

a spiral and a cycle only differ

in the direction of its dimensions.

But maybe growth is life itself

If there exists no destination, then

movement is the answer.

change is growth

decay is life.

A circle may not start,

but it exists as a result.

We have been, we will be,

we are.