The Gardener
Santa Clara, CA 95051
theroot_
WAY PAST©
THE SWITCH
THAT TURNS ITSELF OFF
a laurel wreath won't do for this impossible celebration
only waiting
stretch galaxies, shrink molecules
or
god forbid
switch off the TV
yellowed leaves revered in fall
once green
soon to be forgotten
and the morning glory's splendor
all disappear
some remain who are meant to see
a symphony before ears
those few
who elude dragnet words
WHEN GALAXIES COLLIDE
seems a natural shame to waste this
swordfish yield to penfish
penguins in their tank
tapping at observation windows
swim in smarter circles than accounted for
by the best politicians
of course this makes no sense
when properly viewed, philosophically
so go back to knitting
causing no wars
yet, as has been suggested
do not go gently
dare any of us think
we think
that morning birds are awake
and not their DNA
music is the actual reason
that tones combine before treason
why
pray tell
should all of this continue?
penguins, porcupines, termite mounds
properly viewed
remember
are keys
to the equation
let's have a few mathematical condensations
to bundle conclusions
but waste it we shall
to quibble the benefits of
mowing, weeding, reading
what comes after this
ORDINARY MAGIC
the gold scale on our front porch in Los Gatos
weighed stardust
if nothing else
a dry well sheltered by our garage
was useless
heaven was avocado leaves in late afternoon glow
green
just before sunset
distance and years forgotten
reincarnated each liquid amber fall
a spangle of cafeteria bracelets trailing sparklers, fireworks
sunbeams just beyond reach
a garden spider's jeweled web
cobble stoned streets
dams of mud, sticks and stones
rivulets and ripples
now taking form
in Santa Clara
RECEPTION
at last the radio falls silent
just short of being able to get
The Whistler
the blank side of this AT&T bill
is open for reception
unedited programs fly through the ether
a medium now eschewed
Tabitha cuddles in for something
we don't know what
rain is falling
the middle storm of three
to be followed by a real blast
flash floods on the western coast
who will wash dishes for artificial intelligence?
it can hear The Whistler
edits in hierarchies
spells according to statistics
but it does not need clean pots
this is the National Weather
skitchhh . . .
a sure harbinger
the compost bird flew off
Tabitha knows it
once brilliant trees
now naked are intelligent?
hiding from an absent sun
they hibernate
a long winter's nap begins at three-thirty
daylight savings time
it would have been four-thirty
were it not for meddlers, clerks, clocks
all very reasonable
a nation of free crows visits our tree
machines were humble servants once
to replace humans owned
babbling brooks open to blue skies
were transmitted by minds
far beyond computation
Tabitha is purring
BARREL HOUSE BOOGIE
it may not be much
but who's to say what's more
begin anywhere or start in the middle
there is no end
pa da!
presto chango, we arrive at Niagara Falls
in a barrel
where galaxies collide, with an appreciation for hoop construction
people watch with fascination
fries and a Big Mac
here we are at the end of the world and
nothing
not even a leaper
hot damn!
I am
well that's a beginning, isn't it?
not so fast there, pardner
pardon the informality
but can't we just enjoy the sunset?
or how about an appreciation of geese
flying south
or north
wherever
see how it spirals?
counterclockwise down the drain
at the Mystery Spot in Santa Cruz
water flows uphill
my insanity isn't much
perhaps yours is the fountain of youth
great balls of fire!
let's boogie
BY THE FIRE
it is such a pleasure to be nowhere tonight
to see the fires of hell deleted
karma vaporized in a transitory blaze
breath comes and goes
its passing never ends
and laughter
which bursts forth without so much as a dropping pin
toes wiggle
people talk
birds sing
bees navigate pollen by sunlight
rocks don't say much
until asked:
do you dream, rocks?
there is an interminable wait
still nothing
well
it was like asking a merry go round horse
do you gallop?
do you get a pension?
night after night it's the same thing
Tabitha purrs
no matter which way the pen is moving
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The Gardener
Santa Clara, CA 95051
theroot_