The Dandy-Lion

 

Billions have been

trodden under barefoot

toes, in just my humble

life alone.

Weed, weed decry

the masses of

suburbia.  Jealous

they can spread so

easily on just the wind.

Dandelion, oh the flower

of our youth.  When we were

yet able to forestall the

judgement that a thing could

itself be worthless through and

through.  This herald of glory 

picked by chubby hands. 

While toil we must from 

sun to sun to make a 

simple meager wage to 

tend the need of all our 

days we pass upon here

from cradle to grave.

Sacred flower picked endlessly

by the harbingers of whimsy

and delight.  Might I never lose

my infatuation with your downy

flower and bitter leaves; the purple 

in your stem ever the vein of joy. 

Arise each year, again and again,

and cause the miserable to grumble.

As If In Stone

I love the gentle viscous 

flow of the blueberry ink 

across the page with a 

squirrel tail Sumi brush.

And the staccato, grainy 

feel of the Applewood cinders 

mulled so small for the crow 

quill pen to scratch out words.

But the greatest joy comes from 

writing life with you across the 

wrinkles of our aging skin and in 

the chambers of our hearts.

As if in stone.

As if forever. 

The Taste of Morning

 he Tastes of Morning

A Pewee and a Bunting

just over there, in the high

branches of the neighbor’s

tree - just out of sight.

A sampling of words

going this way and that

down sentences that

may or may not come to be.

A chime in the wind

tinkling and gonging out

notes that lull me into more

birdsong just beyond view.

So many broken threads

line the walls of morning.

Each a possibility of Blake’s

winding ball of Jerusalem.

Perhaps Frost’s road not

taken was one of the many

tastes of morning that assail

us - each a possibility.

I’ll take these all on my

walk, and look for something

on which to dwell, before the

sun rises and I need to look busy.

First Taste

 I want to get 

back to origins. 

To the first taste 

of color on papyrus. 

Back to when berries 

hit the cave walls 

in Lascaux, waiting to

hear the squish of fruit,

the tussle and snort of 

the bison before its 

rusty pigments set. 

How long did they 

soak the walnut husks 

to make the eternal 

ink that covered so 

many scrolls and 

vellum sheaves? 

What sound did the 

words create as 

they were scrolled out 

fresh and new on 

the virgin page? That 

is the un-struck sound 

I want to know and feel. 

True poetry;

true art.

Outset

 From the outset

of the day, there

may have been

another day I would

have wanted if I 

knew how this day

would turn out.

Just sayin’.

Finding a Way

 The small yellow

guidebook for the

Horseshoe Trail looks

the same, a little worse

for the wear from

sharing and all

of the years.  I

turn the page and

forty years fall away.

It is Monday, 1986.

Finding a way through

the way that is life.

Finding a way less 

encumbered with strife.

We found pounds and

pounds of Day-Lily

bulbs in the Spring.  And

would fry them up

in butter when we got

home.  Took thousands

and thousands of black

and white photos on 

our little Tomato

Camera by Konika.

Walked over footbridges,

through streams, and on

horse trails following

the yellow hash marks on

trees and poles.  Three years

of Mondays, 8 miles a week,

out and back - sometimes 

hitching back to our car

if we walked too far.

Finding a way through

the way that is life.

Finding a way less 

encumbered with strife.

We wrote hundreds of

first lines of poems

and pages, to the rhythm

of the seasons and the

boot-fall on dirt.

“Bury my heart in

a Sassafras grave.”  

“Hear my foot-fall

on the damp wooden 

bridge.”  Talked over

the details of newlywed

drama, argued, and laughed,

and stopped often to write.

Backpacks and journals,

hotdogs and brownies, and

oceans of water in our

old tin canteens.  Toting

along labs Rebecca

and Isaac - if not on 

the lead, somewhere

after the deer.

Finding a way through

the way that is life.

Finding a way less 

encumbered with strife.

I think that  I’ve learned

to sometimes lead, and I 

also learned to sometimes 

follow.  To sometimes walk

side by side.  To sometimes

wait for the other - behind.  

The measure of life’s wisdom, 

comes from attention to what 

is needed right now, not what 

you did the last time around.

That moving on through often 

gets you ahead.  And that rain 

and snow are a part of it all.

Horseshit, and muddy paths

hold sway o’er my heart and

linger so lovely in my mind.

Thunderous and Wee