Gift

She gave me a gift
in a dream
which I could neither
enjoy
nor reciprocate.

A thoughtful
generous thing
offered in sleep
treasured on waking.

The Space Beneath the Boughs

of an old Blue Spruce
may become a santuary.
Voices are heard
but words are not.

Sounds like a deep
and distant drum
soothe quietly
in this cool
and airy blind.

One cannot live in
the space beneath
                   the boughs.

Like Pomegranates Grown

How lovely
the eyes that look back
at me across
the table
around the globe.

This voice that tells
me stories
I already know.
When you say them
they are new again.

Would you love me?

Almost I imagine
a world
a time in which that might
be possible.

We are closer now
but the distances
are very broad.

Will you come  to me?
Shall I come to you?

We are paired
like pomegranates grown
on a single tree
feeling each the other
but never able
to come round to the other side.

Will I love you?

I do
as one note loves another
vibrating
in a frequency
natural
sympathetic
complimentary
estranged.

Sometimes It Pays

As you see in a couple of these poems, it is often worthwhile to revisit a piece.

For me, the initial version is sometimes too wordy and less cohesive. When this happens, the meaning gets muddied and the reader may not feel the full import of what I want to say.

It's the same with my painting. I often begin with a pretty detailed sketch, but take it down to bare essentials - big shapes and colors - in order to keep the message plain and uncluttered.

I Missed Her Laughter

Palm trees rose
high into the gray-blue air.

Blonde hair
floated careless
on a salty breeze.

Even this late
in November the worst
she could say was
                 "Rain again?"

Against a bright sky
her blonde hair
floated careless.

It was California.

Even this late
in November the worst
she could say was
                 "Rain again?"

She loved it here.
Palm trees rose
high into the gray-blue air
and a salt fragrance
stayed in her nostrils.

I missed her laughter.

Brook Trout

A shimmer
a twitch
silver line
then gone.

Places Familiar

The surface of a leaf
or this blue silk scarf
is rough beside
your delicate skin.

My fingers love
to recognize
places familiar
to their touch.

Your cheek.
The hollow of your back.
That place behind
your breast and just
below the curve
of your arm
so sensitive and smooth.

Grey evening light
lay draped across
dampening fields.

Spanning their breadth
came domestic sounds
of someone caring for horses.

Your dark eyes were darker
shadowed beneath the broad
brim of a straw hat.

Your smile a thin light
in the cool of autumn.

Down along the river.

The grass is long here

like the hair of her head

six months after
the chemo.

She was stronger then
and her spirits were good.
She would saddle up
and ride the pinto mare
down along the river.

The air was cooler there
and the bright sparkling water
removed her mind
from darker things.

Just Out of Reach

If you should
suddenly appear
like Jesus
in the shut up room
all flesh and bone
and blood I dont
know what might
follow.

This door between us
is thin separation.

You are there
just out of reach
out of sight and I
realize again that you
are not
out of
my heart.

The Pause

was awkward
and brought
the whole thing down
to a slow roll.

No cry went out
into the growing
darkness and no
eyes bent swiftly
in my direction.