On the Wall
I pile seed
On the backyard wall
The other side, where Oleanders tower
Dry leaves rustle at their roots
First to land, finch
One red head, one burnt yellow head
Flit about, quick glances, rapid pecks
Two mourning doves sweep them away
Coo and engage in mating dance
Quivering tail feathers sudden mounting
Then brunch as the wind picks up
Oleanders sway, white petals drops
Under a sky that looks like nothing is wrong
Our coffee grows cold, but we stay
So much else to drink in
Hummingbird darts teases feeder dip
Gecko climbs the mesquite to feast on ants
Who feasts of aphids
Who feast on leaves
At night mice race across the wall
To steal all seed left
I watch their theft
Two oleander flowers stand on the wall
Look like trolls in moonlit shadows
Sentries I suppose, dubious guards
To what lies in our yard
Or the dank roots beyond and below
Where leaves rustle and you never truly know
Who your neighbors are
Patagonia Lumber Company
The weathered sign and sun bleached boards stand
An open door, a hasty chalkboard sign reads “bar”
One step in, a glass counter, coolers jammed with local wine, beer
The only food, bags of chips and pretzels
Seating outside on an uneven stone patio
The tables rock, care not to spill
In a corner on a plywood stage
A guy deftly picks his guitar
Can’t quite sing the high notes
People cheer anyway
Dollar tips drop like autumn leaves in a paint bucket
The air is like dessert, big sky chill fills imagination
The wine, surprisingly good
A Panel truck rolls to curbside
First, two kegs are rolled out
Then two grey haired gals come out with a hand truck
Stack eighteen packs of beer
The hand truck hits a stone
The contents spill splitting two cans
The gals stop everything, grab the fizzing cans
Pour the contents into two frosted mugs
Lemons into lemonade? Or by device?
They find an open table
Savor the spoils of lost revenue
The entertainer sings
Til the Rivers All Run Dry
Not a bad cover,
Everything here is close enough to good
Birthday Month
It is near the end
70, a number of surprise
So much has passed
So much yet to do
I learn to let go
My body tells me so
Like a mother says “do your best”
Fuzzy vision
Takes in softer light
Defuses course reality
I choose what to hear
Pretend it is failing
It is.
But more in the desire to listen
Blood vessels congeal
Get stuck, movement plugged
No wonder hearts tire
Beating to escape the prison of ribs
Last morning of my month
We sit outside
Listen as geese migrate home
I spill coffee on my shirt
To match a sunrise egg yolk drip
She laughs at my carelessness
I don’t give a crap
This time is cultivated
An unkempt garden now tended
Fruit to savor
Facing Shadows
My house plant
Leans to the rising sun
So eager to bend,
I fear she might tip
Every three days
I turn her to the shadows
To self-correct her balance
Grow straight and strong
Like the little girl
The end of the school day
Down’s syndrome child
Running to her mother
Clutching an origami bird
Showing her mother with pride
Then my grandson appears
Shy smile, happy to see me
He tries not to show it
Like when he was young
Running, calling papa
Colliding with joy
How fast they grow
Through the dark and bright seasons
Straight and strong
Leaning to light, bent to shadows
Eager to feast
The first rays of dawn
Rusty Nail
I caught the last set of the jazz band
Winter night, ice in the parking lot
Hartline played like Pat Matheny
Maia's vocals blew the roof away
I had an Irish coffee for the road
Keep me warm on the ride home
You walked in with your girlfriend
In thick coats and red noses
I had another caffeine and whiskey buzz
Rusty Nail packed, the band played an extra set
We stayed, the place bright with smiles
Lively solstice conversations long forgotten
Two more Irish coffees, stayed to last call
Made it home, showered, laid in bed an hour
Got up watched Abbot and Costello until dawn
Wired and wrecked, dressed for work
In those winter days
We burned candles at both ends
Flocked to music and light
Like moths swarm a lamp post
Last night I had an espresso martini
Prayed it would not keep me up
I like waking renewed
Every sunrise
A well-earned warmth
from The Adventurers and other poems:
It is Okay
It is okay to be alone
It is okay to love the lost
We are all alone
We love lost love,
We embrace the pain
Of what is gone
It is okay, we are not stone
It is okay
When rivers run dry
To waltz in memory shadows
It is okay wherever you go
To carry what was
Splintered glass feelings,
Faded fallow faces
Once adored cannot be ignored
It is okay to dive a well that’s shallow
Flies to flypaper
We are stuck
Preserved in the amber
Of the lost
It is better to hold
Than release
Who could renounce
A finger, a toe, a heart,
To seek warmth
In a dying ember’s hearth?
It is okay to lose love
To find and start anew
To gladly give
Knowing you live, you lose
To love the unlovable,
Ones that hurt you so
It is okay, you will redeem
To love again
To love alone
You are your own
It is okay
You simply love
Atmosphere
To be the sky
Not the storm
To let music language steep
Hum the tune of creation’s bang
Flow in blood and breath
Sail through weather
With crystalline eyes
Stoic resilience
To a shattered Earth
To be not the storm
But the sky
It does not happen to you
You happen to the world