Cricket Song

April's thorn hedges
imprison singing crickets,
sure as turtle's jaws.

Locust blossoms cling
to this seventh springs twilight,
still you haunt my dreams.

From full pink moonrise,
barking dogs, stars far away,
I recall your fire.

Water sounds nearby,
geese and turtles splash through spring,
call from shore to shore.

Shores flanking streams, spring,
summer, fall, don't meet till cold
winter touches all.

Hair, white like goose down,
winter's moons, faded eyes, will
flank old memories.

In deepest winter,
cricket wings sing again, freed
by spring's memory.

Five Linked Songs and a Haiku

Far ranging bay mare,
dream provocature,
resolute turtle waker,

In my dream you said,
"We are not born yet."
Shadows kissing in the dark.

I awake alone,
full wolf moon above,
dream clouds shadow my eyelids.

Hoofbeats shout power
to my waking ears;
Rain, beating on my window.

Slow as the turtle,
light fills up my mind,
dawn spreads through the clouds of night.

Wet streets and moonlight,
silence, and my beating heart,
drink the wine of love.

Return to Cuyamaca

Green willows are bent down in leaf again,
brown grasses bow beneath the summer sun,
white pebbles glisten where the stream has run.
Love must return, though we may not remain.

Sweet oak brown earth breaths bungent from the rain,
sharp pinetree fingers rake the blinding sky,
old hillsides echo with the raven's cry.
Love must return, though we may not remain.

Round manzanita berries ripen red,
dark green buckwheat lifts up its rust brown head,
fat yucca fruit is dried and gone to seed;
each flower in its season has its need.

Every voice of nature shares the same refrain,
Love must return, though we may not remain.

Quatranelle for the young Rimbaud

Long dead thin shoots in millions
throw golden heads in the hot wind
while trees sough softly by
under the powder white and puffy sky.

Throwing golden heads in the hot wind
the harvest of wild oats dances
a youth marvels and glances
at the long thin shoots in millions.

While trees sough softly by
no girl comes near to hear him cry
but nature's great fecundity
throws golden heads in the hot wind.

Under the powder white and puffy sky
his is lost in ecstacy and dismay
his worship freed from death's decay
while trees sough softly by.

hey there

Into the blogosphereic world we now go.  dont have much to say today except that those squiggly words that have to be retyped in to set up this blog are not even ledgible half the time.  Will try to come up with something more next week when I will definitely post some pomes.  enough for now.