Empty Canoes


Like two empty canoes 
we floated through narrow canyons of lost time
oblivious of tall mountains hovering like 
dark foreboding giants waiting to pounce
upon our reverie.


But cold piercing rain came
closing our solitude of memories
replaced by a barren abandoned road
wrinkled in empty time devoid of life 
but for sharp lightening filled unknown skies 
crashing down around us.

A Fixer Upper


A fixer upper, she laughed,
driving by an old crumbling cabin
along a backroad outside 
a mountain town deep in 
the San Juan Mountains
of Colorado.

Leaves were turning yellow now,
returning to the forest floor
ready for winter snow and cold.

Stopping to explore the site,
stories abounded from tired ghosts
roaming too long in
three shambling rooms
with curling wallpaper
ordered from 
Sears & Roebuck
when life was
once young.

What were those stories of 
struggling simpler hard times
written somewhere in a long lost
family bible?

Stories of small joys of
a wagon trip west, 
isolation & love,
storms & heat,
cold & snow
dust & drought,
horses & cattle,
gardens & work,
long days,
short nights,
gnarled hands,
root cellars,
death.

Children’s
children’s 
children
living on the coast
with only faded family photos
of a wedding in Chicago,
a man and a woman,
of two children,
their stories lost forever
in unmarked graves
in a valley below
tall mountains
somewhere in
the San Juans
of Colorado.








I Prefer


I prefer alone over crowds.
I prefer quiet over noise.
I prefer solitude over parties.
I prefer sun over clouds.
I prefer full moons over dark.
I prefer hippies over conservatives.

        I fear loneliness when the sun sets
       when all goes away into the dark of night
       when meditation is alone.

I prefer your warm body.
I prefer your quiet breath.
I prefer your fragrant scent.
I prefer your unconditional love
                next to me in our soft bed
                sharing endless dreams.


			

Corruption. Retraction. 
Destruction. Construction.
Distraction. Inaction.
Contraction. Expansion.

Build what is destroyed under cloudy skies
when thoughts digress and judgement
of someone’s dearth of death
is lapped up by hungry dogs smiling all the way.

Pant and paint with red squirrel brushes
dipped in Cézzane’s oils
while the jester juggles his nine angry balls
and the fairy princessfloats in mid-air
through the flaming red hoop.

The wall is built.

The celebration begins with green fermented potions
to transforms lost souls into poets, artists, musicians,
and sad society’s misfits who bring forgotten truth
to the New York Times denied quickly by politicians
protecting their golden villas from teeming unwashed minions
in the Minotaur’s maze.

Live in giddy sorrow that can only be denied
when we wash our hands in our own warm cruor
that frees us to love as the sick destiny of ancient ageless prophecies.








Deja Vu


Deja Vu arrived today delivered by 
      Fed Ex
           Fed Ex
                 Fed Ex

as always efficiently to my
      doorstep
           doorstep
                doorstep

Just when I thought my package was there it came
       again
             again
                  again

over many lifetimes when time reversed itself
running backwards away only to repeat
       mistakes
            mistakes
                  mistakes

Skewed perceptions locked in time and space
alter alternative reality that all is at once
allowing us to choose.

But that sometimes sneaks up on the unaware that we 
have all been here before.


The Skateboard King


The skateboard king twirls his own  

tenuous tricks to the sound of 

one hand clapping alone

for his stupendous trove. 

 

Achilles looked on with envy 

cursing the arrow in his heel.

Paris smiled silently

at the shimmering seal.

 

The King’s last one slick snare

failed and bailed out to one

bright Pleiades in mid-day flare.

All clapping was finally done.

The Poet has Died


The poet has died, no more songs to sing.

No more profound words to write in

the tattered coffee stained notebook

with a worn out pencil he took.

 

He died last week a month ago,

a year or millennium so,

How did he live, how did he die?

Many are those who wonder why.

 

Had he written too much sad verse?

Were there no more poor rhymes to curse?

Did drugs take that deft mind?

Too many words he could not find?

 

No more, no more words of prayer.

No more words for high ladies fair.

No more words of life, death and love.

No more cooing songs of the dove.

 

Do all the poor poets who die alone?

Each now sit on a golden throne?

Do they rhyme in heaven or hell?

There are none to come back to tell.