In the parlours of the parks

Black bees bobble about the deep trees

Honey-buzzing drips on grey stones dark.

As I dream in the night wet wood,

My bones heavy in my weathered house;

 I turn t’ward my death in the humid dark

And my life swirls about my sticks like a sea.

So do I dream it~

Down the hill of flowers

Into the green, wavey pool

‘Mongst roots of the swimming forest–

I dreamed myself a tree

And there among damp leaves

Became long grains of wooden age

Bound to the freedom of life

Home of  the honey combing bees

Tickled by the diplomatic woodpecker

Littler birds flit ‘n’ twitter up and down the leafy stairways

Of my many storied arms

And my toes slowly crumble the stones.

But I have been otherwise made

shaped by the fingers of the earth

Head now resting on a soft knuckle of root…

But there is yet time enough

For everything to be.



What have I done?

Within and without,

My house is littered with pain.

Who can I blame?

Round and about my mind spins,

Senselessly out of kilter,

Out of time,

Sans patter of excuses.


On the horizon… the sun

From under a day-long cloud cover shouts,

Then sinks behind the waters.

The waters lap endlessly the land

As light bleeds slowly out

Of the western wound.


No moon

No stars

Clouds and deep mist lock in the dark.

And there on the damp sand

On the breathing shore

In the seething dark

I find acceptance…



The bird of my thought is a Flycatcher

Swooping, turning, flipping like a bat

In pursuit of fleeing fact,

Compelled to the act,

Always in fact,

Right where its at —



while on still wing in clear light

thought-hawk sails the wind heights

sphere below       —       spheres beyond

reflected in sphere of eye, innocent of fear,

remorseless, near