spent

Time spent. More to spend.

Time is lend't until the end.

Broad smiles. Laughter too.

Lifelong miles for me and yoo.

Birds sing. Flowers bloom.

Indigo skies and midnight moon.

Dogs bark. Babies coo.

Time's 'lest dark for me and yoo.

monday's eve

Shadows cast long in twilight red,

crackling leaves of sycamore.

November's nearly put to bed,

as the dark cloud flocks of mileormore.

Mondays frost will soon be here.

We must abide the grindstone's call.

The lender's grasp is always near,

for those who have to have it all.

downwind

Low silver waves and dark blue ripples.

Summer's swan song.

If this day with these people was a guitar sonata, even the finger rubs between notes would bear light and meaning.

Tranquility rests just downwind from bliss, wears a big straw hat and speaks with a drawl.

We drift in lifes slipstream like leaves on warm water.

And when we regretfully depart, the harvest moon bids us a fond farewell.

lullaby

They had run out of things to say. So they sat quietly at their table on the end of the porch waiting for the check. A bird entered the large holly beside them and shuffled about in the limbs looking for a place to bed down. It was the mockingbird he'd mentioned earlier. They listened quietly as the bird began it's lullaby. Seemingly singing for them, and them alone.

her

I gazed at her in her white sundress so prim and dainty. Then I recalled watching her roast a market clerk in effigy over an eye of the kitchen stove while chanting something sinister. When I'm with her I feel like I'm on a southbound bullet train to gawd knows where. "What're you looking at darling?" She asked. I grinned and growled "pure evil." She smiled sweetly, batting her lashes. "Oh baby you know you love it."

september

September.

A hammock.

White cumulus rolling quietly through postcard blue skies.

Muted sunlight on tired leaves and branches.

Days of dust rests lightly on evening primrose.

Sulfurs frolic among stems of bitterweed and tightly closed morning glory.

A single glistening web drifts lightly on the breeze,

as melancholy grasshoppers sing summers last song.

monster #19

Monster #19, wounded, victim to the goad,

quiet and resting.

The cable clips into the tow and pulls her aboard.

Square hard knuckles clench the straps and cinch her down as one hand rests on her splintered carbon skin.

The trailer door shuts and the diesel rattles.

Soon set right, she'll once again howl on the tarmac plain,

contrails streaming from her wingtips,

as hair rises on the napes of men.

river maidens

Canoes and youth on the New.

A bend, gripping willow branches,

shade, waiting up.

Eye's closed, head down, I hear the soft rush of the river and the willow's whisper.

Then in the distance I hear voices sharpened on hope and happiness.

Young women singing.

My daughter's voice among them.

Sweet verse saturates laureled cliffs and this old soul.

I look up and smile knowing for this brief moment they are light hearted river maidens all.

hen

It was almost dark. He pressed his eyes hard into the twilight to see the peahen at rest with her baby tucked lovingly 'neath her wing.

On the opposite side of their world it was morning. A gong is struck, prayer wheels spin and saffron robed monks emit the sacred "om". The incense glows as fragrant ribbons of smoke rise to the waking heavens.

And the hen spends her last night with the one she loves so dearly.

shadow Puppets

Midnight, eight exceptional souls in the deep warm ink.

Floating.

Quarter moon, the black and muted grays of an endless horizon.

Tears of laughter mix with lake water, witness to the bizzare shadow puppets of the blind.

"Did you see that shooting star?" I asked.

" I did" she said.

'Be sure to make a wish darling."

" I already have and it has already came true."

blackberry morning

Blackberry morning,

soothing breeze,

my young dog barking at a turtle found in the thicket,

song sparrows singing,

a big gray mockingbird carrying on cheefully.

Deep purple and red fruit mingled in with green and greener,

the prickle of briars snagged in the fabric of an old shirt,

fingers stained deep magenta,

the bite of a berry not quite ripened,

strolling home in the warm June sun......

fourth of july

The peacock always sleeps facing the east. Tonight he will turn westward on his perch in the mullberry and watching the souhtwest horizon, he will call out as fireworks glow and crackle....his blues and greens illuminated against the night sky as he turns his head in astonishment. In the morning, he will be facing the east, greeting the new sun, with his memories, but no story to tell.

repose

Alabaster feminine esscence aglow and repose on a copper sofa.

Late afternoon light illuminating words passed about 'neath a spinning ceiling fan.

"If joy had a color, what color do you think it would be?"

"Orange" she said.

And I agreed "yes, golden like the late day sun."

fade

Back porch, rocking chair. Mother hen and chick moving stealthily over moss and through silk grass, one last meal before nights retreat. The cicada's growling din fades just as the days light, and gives way to the katydid's whirrrrr and the grateful chirp of missed crickets.

dauber

Fitch Long drove down his driveway and parked beside the mower shed. He was dog tired. His cotton work shirt clung to his back and shoulders, soaked through with sweat, and the tips of his brown work boots dragged slightly in the gravel as he made his way to the shed. It was mid summer and the grass was growing slower now, but weeds were gaining purchase in the lawn and needed cutting. Squinting slightly as he looked through the treetops, he figured there was just enough time to get the job done before dark.

Fitch entered the shed and looked over his right shoulder to a corner always coated in thick webs. Usually there would be a large wolf spider perched just outside it’s funneled hole watching for an errant victim. He had witnessed all manner of carnage in these webs. The webs ensnared everything, including luna moths and young lizards. This day to his surprise he spied a dirt dauber pretending to be caught in the web. Often dirt daubers feign injury or entanglement in an attempt to lure spiders out in the open so they might administer a paralytic sting. The sting renders the spider helpless. Then the wasp neatly packs it's victim into it’s muddy nest where it will remain asleep until the young wasps emerge to eat it.

Instead of a wolf spider Fitch’s eye caught a rather large black widow poised for attack. Since black widows usually lurk under things, he was curious to find one on the ceiling. She was facing away from him, and the rear of the spiders shiny black abdomen was most of what Fitch could see. She was frozen, watching the sapphire colored wasp as if to be sizing it up. Her forelegs were raised, joints bent slightly. “Oh shit” muttered Fitch, mouth agape, lingering for a few minutes to see if the spider would spring and a fight would ensue. But nothing happened. Eventually he guessed he might be causing a distraction. So he decided to leave, cut the grass and check on them when he returned.

It was July, and the cicadas would be singing soon. Fitch always looked forward to hearing their first calls and discovering the remaining empty husks of their pupae clinging to the bark of the maples in his yard. Old folks used to call the empty insect husks “dry flies”. When his daughter was young they would gather the husks and arrange them on the windowsill above the kitchen sink in rumba lines or in some kind of mock circus tumbling act. One year he heard a lone cicada singing a week before any others and wondered how that could occur. What a waste, what a sad, lonely song when sung alone.

After cutting the grass Fitch eased the mower back into the shed, dismounted, and stepped back to view the result of the webbed confrontation. The spider had not moved. She was still in the same spot and in the same position. The wasp was barely moving now, just a slight leg twitch was all he saw as it dangled from a wad of tangled web. It was then Fitch realized the wasp was not playing a game at all, but had already been struck and lost when he had gazed on them earlier.

The spider's victory was an affront to Fitch’s sense of justice. He had an affinity for dirt daubers since his childhood. He always considered them brave, industrious and friendly insects, occasionally lighting on you or flying right up to your face and hovering as if to be looking knowingly into your eyes. Daubers are never aggressive. Fitch had never heard of anyone being stung by one. And like the cicada’s they sing, but only while constructing their mud nests. It is a loud whirring buzz amplified by the hollow tube of the nest. He always thought it akin to them intently whistling while they worked.

Fitch searched the floor now, picking up an ever present machete. He extended it to the corner and picked the spider from her web. She clung to the blade aggressively as he let it fall to the concrete below, tapping the back tip of the blade until she was deposited and scrambling across the dusty floor. He laid the flat side of the blade on her and crushed her, dragging the cold metal intently until she was just a gelatinous smear on the rough gray surface beneath. He then reached up with the blade and pulled the dauber from the web. It was most definitely dead, there was no indication of remaining life. Fitch gently wiped the wasp on the tread of the mower tire, so it could fall to the floor. Then he stepped on it to quell any suffering that might remain.

jake 'n ernie

Jake stayed out of work one day last week because his basset hound Ernie was sick. Seems Ernie had a reaction to the heartworm medication Jake had given him. He wouldn't eat and had a severe rash.
" Dick, if that joker ain't hungry you know he's sick, 'n if he goes outside all he eats is grass" Jake growled over the phone in his usual gruff but caring manner. I told him not to worry about work and do whatever he needed to do for Ernie. Jake loves Ernie.

The next day Jake returned to work, relieved Ernie was better.

I've often said Ernie has it better than a lot of young'uns do. Jake has no kids of his own, though his wife does have a grown daughter. Jake would've made a good dad. Somehow it wasn't in the cards for him to be a father. He's a caring and thoughtful guy. Jake and Dee see to it Ernie gets whatever he wants. They even bring him food back every Saturday when they go to the fish house for supper.

Yesterday Jake said "look here" and held his phone up for me to see a series of pictures showing Ernie looking pitiful, laying in Jake's bed with the covers up to his shoulders. His head was on the pillow and a cool washcloth on his forehead. I shook my head and said "That's one spoiled dog!" Jake smiled and chuckled proudly. "I told ya' he was sick."

loose cow

Cow tracks in the trail today.

Adrift from the herd,

the fence is long gone.

On the loose, exploring, ears forward, hushed breath.

Greener pastures?

Freedom?

Or just a desire to see the tractor up close,

rub against it,

and lick the grease from it's sides?

Who are we to ponder the bovinial realm?

Only she knows for sure.

I hope she had fun.

rain souls

A stroll in the rain today.

The hushed static of drops on dry fallen leaves.

The lumbering gate of this old soul shuffling through brush and briar.

Eyes closed, head back, mouth agape, arms outstretched,

The rain falls on and in me,

Stumbling along.

Eyes opened upward to see a tall pin oak,

rising.

Eyes closed, head back, mouth agape, limbs outstretched.

peepers

Encountered spring peepers today,

Heralding what waits just beyond the present.

Each male crying sweetly "pick me! pick me!" as their fair objects of desire sat quietly,

Contemplating behind large golden eyes.

Had each call been a lime green pearl of sound suspended on air,

I may not have passed or burrowed through a wall of sound so dense.

good dementia

I took a break from cutting trail today, laid down in a tall patch of broomstraw,

listened to the wind and gazed into the wild blue,

and thanked my lucky stars I just felt a twinge of the good dementia.....

to an envious friend

The talent of some is a mere fraction of the whole.

A single aspect does not a complete soul make.

There are scoundrels and rogues that move gracefully and sing as birds wish they could.

To love sincerely those around you is worth more than any verse, step or light. That love shines brighter than any sun.