Dangling here with heart

In trembling hand

Exposed to all eyes.

Judgment call sounds

With stentorian horn

Welcome to the villa

Your presence is desire

Reject us not and

Learn the joys of festive life

Under a sun potent

With bronze skin

Reaching back to Aztec

And Comanche and names

Long forgotten but for

Curios etched in prints

A huddled family

And fire smoke from mesquite.

Fire Next Time
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This Overflow

Goes beyond banks

And trimmed parks

Off into the streets

That go down a hill

Where neighborhoods fill

With tragic escape tales

Dog paddling to small boats

Or riding roof beams

A tar shacks left

And unanchored–

Change addresses

To river towns down

Where gravity plies its trade

Rolling to the salty sea

We sleepers…now recruited

For circum-navigations.

Dog Paddling

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Shadows Bright on Snow

Well we know what Phil Down in old PA

Will do today–

Sniffing briefly

Before scuttling back

Into a burrow worn

Where all us humans

Wish as well

To return–

And sleep

Until the great thaw

That spring brings

Under which

Our twitching noses

We smell the fresh sprouts

Of our next season’s salad

Misplaced by time & weather.

Phil as Phony

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Wayward Types…

Speak not ill

Of wayward types…

The kind leaning

On your gate.

Come russet morning

The birds break into song

And the breakfast bell

Ringin’ o’er the farm

For their arrival

Is of a miracle

Rather than curse

For they are angels perhaps

Disguised as nar- do-wells:

Messengers from the roads

That never end–

Samplers of oceans

And the great sphere of stories.

Top of the Morn!

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Greedy Voyeur, on knees

Hiding in the weeds,

Sneaking a peek

Through the shower blinds

Where your fantasy

Stands in a waterfall

Caressing her every contour

From low mountain & foothill

To every ridge and peak

Beautifully suffused

By warm watercolors

From greys, rose & pale pinks

And astounding reds,

Those freckles you scan

When in sun dress this screen

Possesses your mind & baffled tongue.

Psychedelic Visionay

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Bracing moment, old man…

Indeed, words doth sting–

Truth trumps etiquette

C’ nest n pas?

Oh Lord, forgive my condition,

For I have spoken

In the chamber of Elders

And a profound silence

Has raised the issue

Of my continued existence–

I hover in my study

Phone off, computer blank–

Only the day’s sun

To mark time.

I await the next boat

From the mainland–

(the pregnant pause)

And the firm knock

At the front porch door.

LOW TIDE

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That Voice…

Rich with pot liquor

Distilled by the ages

Kept alive by hate

Pure dee Jesus preying’

And soulful searches–

You doubt me?

But then consider–

You may have been spared

A master mind as sibling

The crush of finger in door,

The betrayal to parents,

Lords & Ladies–

Who on high—

Pleasure themselves

With puppets of their own creation

Who dance to a hectic wild tune!

That pot liquor voice

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