Cazadero Whisper

Cazadero Whisper

Walk from a meadow
edged with bay trees and madrones,
past mighty oaks,
and, finally,
into the heart of the redwoods.

Stand on a floor carpeted
with age-old needles,
beside stone outcroppings
covered in moss,
and listen.

A shout here could be a whisper,
but who would know?

Who would dare to speak
above a whisper,
in a land that whispers
in a voice heard by poets?

A land that has heard poets speak,
heard poets write of that whisper,
that voice that says,

“A millennium could pass,
with no sign of all who pass through here,
if only they would see this world
through the eyes of a poet.”

And who could not be a poet in that world?



From Beyond

From Beyond

Beyond dusk,
I walk the shoreline,
camera and tripod
over my shoulder.

Beyond the horizon,
sunrays reach for a sailboat mast,
to reach for beach glass
in the water at my feet.

A last parting gift,
or so I think.

Glass in pocket,
I climb the slope from shore,
reaching the crest
to discover the moon,
rising beyond the trees.

A true parting gift.

30 poems in 30 days_17

Lying Through My Teeth

Lying Through My Teeth

My tooth is killing me.

Dentist wants to pull,
has a jar that’s full
of teeth in various stages of decay.

I wasn’t too concerned…
…that is, until I learned
he sells them at a profit on eBay.

Disclaimer:  No teeth were harmed in the construction of this response
to the NaPoWriMo2014 Day 16 prompt… write a ten-line poem of lies.

Dream, Eclipsed

Dream Eclipsed
Verses flow in a steady stream,
or so it seems, until I wake
with a start,
part of me wondering
where the words could have gone.

Long ago, I realized
this feeling was nothing new.
Few of the images survive
those waking moments
that follow an unsettled sleep.

Keeping just a small part
of those thoughts is no small task.
Grasping for details leads nowhere,
each fading
with each passing moment.

In my dream I was writing,
this time about the moon,
more wan than blood-red,
fed by Earth’s shadow,
still fresh in my mind,
after keeping a date
late in the night
with camera and sky.

Now, photos that please me
tease me with ever-fading words.
Turning that ever-fading vision
into verse seems less likely
than any dream coming to life.


Rust Harvest

Rust Harvest

The barn has witnessed
times of bounty
and times of need.
It has served as a workshop,
while sheltering animals
and storing produce.

Witnessing, now,
only times of neglect,
it shelters disused parts
of thrashers and combines,
or tractors too-long neglected
to be of any use at all.

With no light entering,
except through gaping holes
in its gray, weathered sides,
or past doors
falling from their hinges,
it is too proud to fall to its knees.

It stands, resolutely performing
its last remaining function,
harvesting rust.



Anything But

Anything But

 Listened to blues this morning,

as we do every Saturday.

Thought about Chicago.

How we met in a blues club.

How we read poetry together.

How we we went back to Chicago

for poetry and jazz.

Looked at you across the table,

listening to blues this morning,

and knew, without a doubt,

It’s been anything but the blues.

30 poems in 30 days_12