Lemoyne Star quilt, OrangesI like to build things.
houses of irony,
wings out of emptiness,
wealth with freedom,
freedom from desire,
passionate power
through humble fire.

I like to take things apart-
ego trips which hide a hurt child,
logic, with its webs of words
love, acid test for the heart
which burns to a fresh core,
TV, legal heroin-
(poetry now for why and WOW!)
Trix Cereal, to eat the just the marshmallows,
orchid flowers next to moth wings
because they both can fly in dreams,
light and dark shadows
which creep across the wall,
a new heartbeat, ba- dum, for each scene-
(purple crayons, into reds and blues, and violets, too),
purses, full of stories and things you need,
the layers of flavor in a slice of aged cheese,
the fruit hidden in a sip of wine
made from five different grapes,
from five lands far and wide-

as I listen to this ancient music,
this Bach, chugging across
the tracks of time,
rolling over my gaucherie
with wheedling words
loose and natural,
down these rocks,
purposeful, watchful,
timed entropy.

I build sand castles to watch
as the wind blows them away.

The quilt in the photo is from the Civil War era. The pattern is called Lemoyne Star, miniaturized to crib quilt scale. It comes from Kalamazoo, MI.

Sacrificial Tree

Here are two poems about Christmas Trees. I’ve always been torn about having cut trees. I’ve reconciled my guilt by thanking the tree for giving me the soulful pleasure of its wonderful smell and living presence in my life.

I keep my trees as long as possible, usually until my birthday in mid January. This year I haven’t yet gotten a tree. I’ve just been too dissipated physically and emotionally, plus winter came on early, hard and strong. Who knows, maybe I’ll still get inspired.

lightening christmas tree

Sacrificial Tree

Darkness descends upon afternoon’s glow
And pulls day’s light to down below.
As fickle air courts heavy chill
Feeble warmth flees up,
Conceding defeat
To weighty still.

I then illuminate the sacrificial tree
To lift the void which leadens me.
Her scintillating glitter
Enshrouds my fears
Enveloping my heart in glamorous sight.

This starry gift is infinitely old
yet ripe with richness
as time’s birth of soul.
Such sweet ritual!
Such mundane skill!
Giving root to such lofty thrill!

We need only open our hearts,
Our senses, our doubts, our souls to Her allure.
The myth of the season is born again.

Our Christmas Tree

Our Christmas tree stands before me,
evergreen through the seasons,
glowing with light
through darkness and freezing.
My soul is warmed by its
shimmering spirit,
all crystal and glimmering,
giving life to love needed.

I’m able to hope
by such burning glory
for peace where there’s strife
and love for those, lonely.
My heart aches with sadness
that you can’t be here near me
but life must go on, then
for Beauty’s Eternity.

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Touch My Soul

Touch my soul and it is yours.

(It is never
Fire eating
snakes nip at my nipples,
unzip my fly,
bitemy mosquito)

Take my hand.

(Filling their mouths, drinking
mother’s milk, they
queue up at my statue.)

(It is not theirs.)

Look into my eyes.

over a hedge,
falling flat
my back.)

What is yours?

Kissing me is not…

…the answer.

Touch my soul and…

…it is ours.
Take your bow.


photo strip1
Emotions bulk under the surface.
Parched thoughts search through drawers,
looking for lost socks, ones missing a matching twin.
Burly ogres guard the door, eying me with cyclops grins,
thousands of books piled high around them, dog eared ravenously.
Next to me I find a strip of old photographs, proof sheets,
black and white miniatures bordered with numbers,
thin shavings of the early years, glamorous tinted skin,
debutante attitudes with the light always shining from behind.
My face looks back at me, learning from my lines,
taking notes on little scraps of discarded catalogs
lost under the sea, rolling among waves of salty tears.
Cordoned off are rooms with freshly cut flowers,
bouquets of roses stripped of thorns, just beginning
to wilt, though the shades are drawn, the door key-less.
Saints and sinners meet in the room next door,
a détente to sort things out. They share a meal
of smoked ham and lentil stew, homemade with love.
The weather holds its breath, waiting
for the key to the stopped clock on the wall.
But they leave by a secret door, un-noticed.
The tub overflows, drowning
all the roses, whose petals float out
with one note scribbled on each,
notes of a song of gratitude, randomly humming
as they hover out the window and out to sea.
And the wind chimes pick up the tune
as if they already knew.
photo strip2

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Airmail Love


Sometimes before sleep late at night, I lie in bed
listening to my cats purr as they lick themselves clean
before curling up in a furball as close as possible to me.
I hear the distant roar of the highway, thousands
of cars swishing in a hurry to get somewhere,
perhaps the moon. Maybe they are lonely,
and sad love follows them as fast as they can drive.
Or maybe they’re rushing for an emergency,
a serious accident, or worse. Or maybe they were
working late, and long to get home
to a warm bed, and peace, if nothing else.
I think of my friends all over the world,
living lives with direction, going forward, or not,
friends past, whom I’ve lost touch with,
friends present but distant, thousands of miles away.
I think of all the sad or happy or tragic people
spinning around the planet as it spins across time,
laughing, crying, or lonely, dying,
or perhaps wondering and grateful, as I am.
And I think of you, with your quiet burning
of life with it’s myriad questions.
And I send you a little message. I open my heart
and give you my nurturing thoughts, my hope, my love.
I wish you well, I wish you peace.
By sending an airmail full of good wishes,
I feel lighter as I prepare for sleep under
a fluffy down comforter and two warm furballs.

Digiart by Veach. I think they’re pretty cool. I hope you do too. If you want to see the original piece, click on the image and there you are.