At the far end
of the pasture
ran the horses

naked and lithe
as though they might
lift into flight.

"Damn!" she said
"Look at em go!"

She was younger then
bright eyes wide
with the thought of it.

We walk on stones
sometimes
broad and flat that lie
so still

and when
we walk on sand or leaves
the memory of stone
remains.

 

Air moves cool across
the void created
when the trees fell.

A moment was all but in
that moment she appeared
bright
shimmering in the eye
of the universe.

How quickly the dream
is fading.
 

The walls had
originally been white
but years had turned
them yellow or gray
streaked
with bright sienna
in areas exposed
to the rain.

Behind the panes of black
wooden framed windows
a bed on the right
table on the left
sat one small clay
pot of flowers.

We sing of stones

bright colored
sparkling
beneath autumn sun
and our voices
rise in the telling.


 

We wrapped ourselves
in clear August darkness
a fine silk scarf
against the alone.

Our paired skin relished
a sweet cool zephyr
that had quietly slipped
through darkened leaves
and into spaces
between us.

It wasnt love.
Just company on a warm
and quiet summer night.

Two sweet midnights
spent in comfort and kisses
on a soft sleeping bag

under a slowly

spinning sky.

We were
vagabonds
in the brush.

Sleeping by a stream

and waking early

she left me dreaming

and that's as it should be.

Will you walk with me?

Not far.

Just to the end
of the conversation.

I want to live where there are horses.

To wake with the smell of hay and shit
and walk out into a damp morning
before the air becomes heavy
with the noise and business of life.

The sounds of horses comfort me
neighs and whinnies
stomp of a foot in moist earth.

Tangerine

Small and delicate yet
how easily it sheds
its pungent garment
to expose the naked
scarce protected flesh
and yield its ripened juices
to fingers
lips and tongue.

Autobiographical?

Someone asked if my writing was autobiographical. The answer to that is both no and yes.

Each of these pieces is written impromptu, as I sit at the keyboard. There is no preplanning or thought process that goes into it. I just write what comes, then edit a little so it feels more poetic. As such, I draw a lot from the people I've known and events that have happened in my life.

In these pieces, three or four women have emerged. None is a real person, but each is a composite of women I have known in my life. Scenes described here are mostly fictitious, but with bits of reality woven in. If not, they couldnt feel true.

If these poems work, it's because they convey a reality that we all have known. They touch something in the reader that resonates. That's what I'm after. Tell me if it's working.