low shuffling signals the passage on my street of cows
up from the village green this evening, a field for football that they keep trim
...
Let’s talk about beings made of light, the light beings.
Though they have no use for what we value…
...
WATCHING PIGEONS FLYING.
A LEAF FALLS FROM A TREE.
DROPS OF RAIN STAIN THE PAVEMENT.
THE SUN IS HIDDEN BY A CLOUD.
...
You can do anything you want.
You can wear brown socks with black shoes.
You can match plaid with stripes, or wear chartreuse,
Lay salty lox on chocolate cake; fry, not bake…
...
Why am I angered by her sweet words?
Is it that she must find external meaning in wonder?
That she insists on religiously anthropomorphizing nature,
its beauty and its creatures,
...
He’d never built a house before
But I was new and couldn’t tell
watched him big trees fell and awaited my chores
with bright delight. Stainless-steel shank
...
Thinking of never-again being,
Never seeing a tree
Or hive of bees in a tree
Being eaten, bee by bee, by a
...
Some poems to explore, he sort of liked them and wanted 50 more,
Suggested I follow the narrative path when I came back.
Next year of my novel he said even Joyce wrote plots.
...
“Like giving an after-dinner mint to a dead man’s heartache, ”
a line came drifting in and settled in my mind,
after falling asleep to Camus.
...
As a group to our barn we go.
Looking up as if she knows,
we lead her to sweet pasture,
wishing we could take of its nurture,
...
It’s as if we’re wending our way in a cave
slowly trying to get out or
leading to a place of safety and of succor.
...
I wish I was 27 instead of 67.
Oh, sure, you say, who wouldn’t?
Wait, I say, I wouldn’t want to lose what I know, so
I’d want to take everything but my age and its fate with me.
...
within this delicate filigree am I infinitesimal
within me is the knowing of eternity
...
WRITE PAINT PHOTOGRAPH CYCLE DANCE PAINT HIKE RECYCLE)
Moo.Cow
low shuffling signals the passage on my street of cows
up from the village green this evening, a field for football that they keep trim
though players must plod through pies of their leaving
jumped over rather than upon by the nimble and the fleet
recalling weekend volleyball back in an Oregon outback
net stretched between a tree and a pole, cow pies marking the boundaries
and randomly mining the playing ground with their squooshy presents
slalomed while loping to catch and pound a floating ball over my head
early morning mist rising from last night’s frost, I milked our cow
resting my head in her damp silky flank, smelling sweet steamy frothing
me writing dialogue for plays in my head, later set to paper
after filling bottles, sterilizing buckets, setting a bowl to sour under the stove
remembering rural compounds in Turkey, piled in front with bricks of dung,
to serve the household as fuel, cooking food, keeping warm in winter,
arranged in rick-racked cubes, complicated spirals, pyramids, walls
to ward off weather, I don’t know, or simple tradition blindly regarded
here in small town South Africa, township cows slowly saunter
fresh from pasture, home to second milking or slaughter or sleep
tomorrow their moans and rumbles remind me of the beginning of other days
Mooo, I say from my window. Mmmmmmrrrrr.rrnnnnnnnnnnn……
xxx