BITS AND PIECES©

CLOUD BURST

as the first leaves fall

let poets scramble for cover

because soon it will be a gallery

bowling pins

all stored out of sight suddenly thump down

will words topple them?

invoking cosmic justice

I declare them leaves of grass

the moving pen cuts a swath

strike! I call

they were not meant to stand

and all that cosmic juice along with them

bluster winds

trouble and toil

leaves tremble, as must their shadows

origins, endings everywhere

and not a thought to think

ALONG THE WAY

planting garlic means preparing the soil

smelling it warm

in late afternoon sun

pulling out gobs of silver maple tree roots

but now the bulbs have to contain themselves

under the best of circumstances

they do not smell like semen

impregnating mother earth

muscles are reincarnated worms

that leave thinking

to the gardener

TRICKY TREAT

Halloween is when the zombies come out

disguised as zombies

the Day of the living Dead

cobwebs and Spanish moss and mistletoe

celebrations

kids like them all, isn't it wonderful

Truth or Consequences, Hide and Seek

and ye shall find in the Cave of the Winds

a birthday present

your original face

before zombiehood

in the neighborhood

AFTER RAIN

earth dimples and pot holes

are mirrors filled with sky

making visionaries of those with eyes

though it seems somewhat frenetic

lost in perhaps a Victorian home

at a fireplace

where one nods off finally

to speak plainly

when hungry, eat

when tired, sleep

Tabitha gradually encroaches

edging over these words with a sleepy paw

and the cup of Sleepy Time Tea has been emptied

leaving no choice

FORTY ELBOWS

over the horizon, under the ivy

something runs the same

Brother, my first cat, and I

looked for it

an endless adventure just out of reach

escaping

frowned upon by older people

■ what are you doing under there?

■ get out of that bush!

the game of hide and seek was tolerated

we pretended to play that

and gradually disappeared

and gradually older people disappear

Brother keeps on reappearing

we are ageless

LOOSE TILES

a pointillist mosaic by Pissarro

in dibs and dabs of brilliant colors

each unlikely point a painting to itself

in a haze of gabbling neighbors

magically becomes a portrait or a garden

discovered only upon stepping away

then looking back

a passel of writings

when pondered

merge into something long forgotten

when forgotten

these bits and pieces

work their magic