Walking the Dog

It is nice to walk today

in the woods beneath

autumn-gray skies.

Over the trail

my boots fall

mechanically.

Yellow and russet

some splashed in red

leaves carpet the spongy

swollen earth drinking deep

in the dust of an arid summer gone

lingering in a warm kiss

showing no signs of winter

except patches

of thin naked air.

Sun Down

Sometimes night has nothing to say

hiding in shadows; ambiguity

Nothing to reveal

nor deft surprises lurking

Sometimes night is simply

the absence of color

From an otherwise over-worked world

lackluster saturation

Consequences

My clumsy feet and long sturdy shoelaces

stumbling for that place in life

One elusive place that finds me

falling nose-long for the ground

One heartbeat

One Breath

One lifetime as I blink:

One blink.

One thought.

So missing the ground beneath my feet,

the things I see and smell

appointed and filed

for later recollection.

Broken Pieces of Everyone

What is the hurried life?

Time,

perception,

Relative

The ability

to hurl one self through it

without reward or pain

We become triviality:

Stupid crap on a Facebook page.

Summer of The Said Salamander

Shapes of trees,

negative Space

in the light of fire.

--Fireflies

like dying stars flicker

before the torn fabric of space,

a dim blu hum of sky

move to the foreground.

Curious

little minds,

timid cautious creatures

Peering into the depth

Wind falls

from ridge-line-peaks

dusting a Woodpecker

beating coarse and tender bark.

Bug-bitten feet shuffle in the shallows

while salamanders slither

like wriggling rays of sunshine

or great dragons gliding

over golden grains of sand.

Crosseyed, Looking Through Screens

through the open yard
dog at my feet
eyes somewhere
Gazing
between that mocking bird

and blue grass shadows
falling from trees
fixed everything in peripheral

My thoughts form lines, one
at a time passing
with each passing breath

until my chest kicks me
back to blue grass.
I forgot to breathe.

It’s funny how thought comes
much differently for crows
or woodpeckers drumming
through
tattered sunlight.

Cycles In Season

It’s Autumn.
Songs play in the wind
in gusts blowing down
from trees
Soon comes the ice.

December
the moon is high
and full
and I can feel the day
strain in my back.
Nothing keeps the stars from looking any less
vivid in the crisp night air.

Spring is on me again
Winter holding its beauty
beneath lingering
ice and snow
I’m tired, dragging,
in a good frame of mind.
There is only what I am
at any given moment.
I am these things about myself
I see as a constant
throughout my life

June
sneaks in like a cloud
bright
and drifting
along the edges,
calling me to gaze
as a darkened swirling vortex
opens in my mind.

Songs of Autumn wait for me
like embryonic leaves
frozen in sap.