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.
Tuesday, September 7, 2010
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.
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.
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.
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.
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