Spellcaster #poetry

Wind and mountain
Cloud and rain
The silver spellcaster’s
familiar refrain
Sun and moon
and mighty hawk too
The owl’s sacred night
and fresh morning dew
Called from the heavens
or beckoned from below
Breathe the four directions
where the secret things go
Wandering the woods
Ever alone
His reality the trees
The rocks his bones
Far too human
for digital lies of
Currier and Ives
Facebook lives
Far too human
Not fit to be seen
One moment strong
and the next, weak
yet more than complete
in Infinity’s grand scheme
Unshackled from impressions
the wizard walks free

Peace

Silent joy of the dead
Unseen river sweeping regrets
through evening shadows
flowing soft from the stones
Theirs no more
Carried to the
wine dark sea
where memories
cease to be

Guest Writer From Paris – “Red Wine”

The Eiffel Tower
in my mind
attracts no
tourists so my
leap from the top
and the messy
landing will go
unnoticed
save by passing
squirrels, (ever
my tormentors eating
up my bird seed and
tomatoes), come
to snicker at my
demise and
Sting will
probably sing
at my tribute
because he sings
at every tribute
that pretentious fuck
Lauded far above
his talent, a bad
penny that keeps
turning up
but I guess I’d be
flattered all the same
in my mind where I
never really died anyway
and I’ll take a car
down the Champ de Mars
for an espresso
after the service
in my funeral
shined shoes
and frozen
perfect hair

Slapdash Soiree (or A Collection of Random Scribbles in One Act)

What do you do
with a funk when
it settles
on you
like funks do
and the world
is a rocket
racing away
It can’t wait
Nope
or so
the little man said
who runs through my head
starting fires
And already
the first heralds
of Fall are
in the trees
Rasping
Scraping
summer
from the earth
in thin layers
while they hope
for a pardon
from Winter’s
Marshal October
who’s just now
rounding around
the mountains
on his way
to town
And all I’ve
never known
and left undone
is buried in
the ground
breathlessly
waiting
the sound
of hooves

Forest Dirge

A plaintive
mournful sound
A feeble rising
tone slowly
repeating
well down the
wooded path
I had found
So compelling
I was drawn
to discover
what manner
of bird
could be
heard emoting
such a call
So stalking
ever so slowly
I made my way
closer and closer
to the unseen source
silent as a jungle cat
until distracted
by the crash of a
large bird launching
from a high perch
above me something
dropping heavily onto
the dead carpet
of leaves below
as I watched
him go
Regaining my
composure I
moved closer
to examine what
had fallen to find
that which remains
of a squirrel after
a red-tail hawk has dined –
only a tail with a flap
of skin attached and
while contemplating
this surprise from over
my left shoulder that
same sad cry came again
Turning
I saw a
small squirrel
hugging tightly
to a limb
his butt
tucked up
against
the trunk
of the tree
and he continued
to repeat
that piteous
heartbreaking
refrain as
I watched

breathless
to bear witness
to something
so sacred
So unexpected
as a young squirrel
mourning the death
of one of its own

Bad Bargains

Share no trust with
wingless Cardinals
too dark to fly
swearing to know
the light in the sky
Nor trust the
lion’s gratitude
from whose foot
you removed a thorn
He will consume you
with that selfsame
gratitude when
hunger looms
and never, ever
trust the moon
on a blue night
fat with stars
Enamored by her light
Captive to her charm
You’ll pledge your heart
to wake alone at dawn

Poets Parade #poetry

Among the lost I am
indistinguishable –
We all wander alike

In small circles

Occasionally
thrusting our arms
ecstatically skywards
’cause we almost had it
there for a second
but our lime green
gelatin dreams
have yet
to set so the
March for the Muse
continues
and we punctuate
the air with batons
of empty spoons