Saturday, June 30, 2007

Small Rewards

I sweat dream-drops
into the diamond-tipped dust
of callused hands and concrete alteration.

The sun burned passion into my thirst
causing me to strike the cask of orange stone
many times without speaking a word.

I may not cross the waters into Canaan,
march around Jericho and topple walls, but
the job is done, and I can sleep in, in the morning.

Wednesday, June 27, 2007


Working out in the field this week. Will return by Sunday, I hope.

Saturday, June 23, 2007

Saturday’s Ghosts

Well, now it’s Saturday.
The long neck ghosts aren’t rowdy
punching holes in the walls of my head,
but they did wake me up talking about:
pine trees chewing on the chin of the sun,
egg rolls swabbing tongues with duck sauce,
a Texas Hold-Em game that held me up.
Their chit-chat of Friday’s antics make me
determined to give their pop-top cousins
something to talk about in the morning.

Friday, June 22, 2007

Miller Time

Friday again,
my favorite day of the week.
The day I go to the lake,
grab a half dozen, or so,
bottles of Miller Lite
around skinny forty degree necks,
watch the brown glass sweat
as I drain their chilled-out lives
down the stressed-out throat of mine.

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Thursday, June 21, 2007

Shoot For The Stars

It’s been awhile
since I shot my potato gun
at the stars

never hit any

but the thunderous fire
that bid farewell
to the missile of its birth

was close enough.

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Wednesday, June 20, 2007

Toast And Jam

The sun—
a favorite poetic theme,
spread its honey-gold jam
over the lightly toasted ravine,
with the far crusty edge trimmed off
by a serrated muddy creek.

What better way
to take the first bite of day?

Monday, June 18, 2007

All Used Up

His body rummaged through
drowning lungs of inevitability,
searching for the proper breaths
to accompany him to death.

There were only a few left—
short, gasping rattlers,
but he used every one
before the next occupant took his bed.

Friday, June 15, 2007

Water-Wool Thread

Water-wool sheared
from wild herds of rain
spins the finest crystal thread.
The first time I kiss you
will be stitched to the last, and
you’ll never feel the scratch of a seam
from our beginning to our end.

Wednesday, June 13, 2007

Heart Of A Storm

I watched your jowls
flush up with fury,
jagged electric veins
pop up and down
your stout gray neck.
I listened to you threaten
cowering trees, and neighborhood cats.
Yet, underneath all that whoosh and fume
beat a heart full of tears
for thirsty roots of dying souls.

Sunday, June 10, 2007

Dressed For Love

Silence draped the night air
like a satin gown flowing
over moonstone slippers
stepping on the cracks of a ruffled sea.
It was formal and eloquent,
articulate in whispering soundless words,
definitions beyond meaning, expressions
tangled like tongues in a midnight kiss.

Friday, June 08, 2007

Sorting Echoes

They called at 8 p.m. last night
while we were listening to seagulls
squawk about being seagulls,
waves and sand arguing over boundaries
neither have, nor ever will honor,
an over-the-shoulder retort of a red hot sun
shoved into the silence of a watery night.
We decided to wait to return the call,
our ears were busy sorting through
the echoes of all we’d just heard.

Wednesday, June 06, 2007

A Mother’s Chill

She sits wrapped in a towel,
trying to stay warm in a poolside breeze.
Her children, a boy and girl,
swimming with wings holding her breath,
unable to feel what she feels.

Monday, June 04, 2007

Naked Beauties

I dog-ear waterfalls,
like memory pages
in God’s premier issue
of all time naked beauties.
Their roaring words slam
onto indifferent rock ears,
tangling strands
of green and white,
always flowing,
always pulling me
into the never ending
wetness of a first love

Sunday, June 03, 2007

Fast Food Mugging

A murderous gang of fast food fries
mugged my heart in Greenville, Alabama.
As best I can determine, since my eyes
only read obits in the now and back when,
they made off with approximately 24,382 beats.
I also think one of the greasy slick sticks
slipped a hand inside the vest pocket of my lungs,
and lifted several hundred old and fading breaths.
Not a lot when calculated in minutes and hours,
assuming I have years to recover what was lost.

Friday, June 01, 2007

Music To My Ears

Do you hear it?
Tell me I’m not crazy…
I hear cello music
stripping caulking from my windows,
hanging notes on my ears
like antique baubles
that chime in perfect harmony
with every thought I have of you.