GREEN TEA DAY©
TRUMPET VINES
O'er the ramparts flying
and such
come poets tumbling
rhymes in hand, drums beating
while I
unhumbled
listen to no one
what do I know?
well, nothing
in spite of that, or perhaps because of that
words bubble up
not things, actually, not known
these very words
so unbeautiful
but were I ashamed, it would betray a lack of gratitude
the very things no one can say
not hidden in birds or sunsets
or my rusting truck
who would try
except a fool
oh, every once in awhile there may be a rhyme or two
not quite by accident
given the structure of language
but let's not push it
a rusted truck?
you would have to ride in it
have to hear its creaks and rattles
its engine pulling loads over fifty years
not to call it music
or how about when our cats purr
anyone's cats
the sound of your children
on a good day, of course
or anyone's children playing
you would have to work next door to a school yard
or planes flying overhead
I like to hear a single engine plane
following its drone
gradually disappearing
leaving birds again
and then
pretty far off
a high school football marching band
trumpets, trombones and certainly
drums
but not just a military street beat
tuned drums playing a conga
it sure beats tumbling
probably a pun
WHEN DAY IS DONE
all the usual gardener things have a place in the closet
they sleep in there at night
getting all snuggled in before the door shuts and the pen comes out
words flow, rafting over the day's events
leaves bundled up, the casual wave of a neighbor
until finally it comes to what cannot be clothed
and then, obediently
moves on to sketch in colors beyond dreams
way up on the top shelf, out of reach
just as in other closets
where eventually all clothes go to sleep
the shelf goes beyond walls
way up where stuff is going on
it has no limits
and the clothes are stuck on hangers
laughter on wings
will visit while clothes are sleeping
soon we will sleep
we will meet
almost as we did on that sunny day
RAINBOWS AGAIN
AS THE SUN GOES INTO HIDING
the hearth crackles to life
or not
if it's a Spare the Air Day
for city drones without extravagant means
apartment dwellers
seasonless lives
the Pineapple Express might inundate everything
or perhaps a drought will follow
too much northern wind
summertime
a full moon evening at Full Circle Farm
the Festival Theatre Ensemble presents Macbeth
rebirth of The Bard
swaddled in quilts
to warm shivering knees visited with climate change
the grand procession yields
three witches
the cycle lives on
bringing holidays and celebrations
a dark age blinded by brilliant lights
civilization
humanity's crowning achievement
is surpassing itself
hiding that which is without limits or definition
beyond darkness and illumination
a raindrop
several octaves up and beyond hearing
is gathering a fortune
that needs no crown
THE MOMENT
sculpture is removing what does not belong
until the truth remains
science is sculpture
the chisel reason
is that all we need to know?
there is joy in beauty
this is known
reason is dispassionate
the impetus is curiosity
the reward discovery
who knows the reason for this
so
beyond reason
lies the great unknown
out of which what is known arises
scientists, gaucho riders, scribblers, graffiti taggers,
whistlers in the street, bureaucrats with spreadsheets
artists all
and perhaps gum chewers
yet at the extremities it falls short
gloves, socks, beaver skin hats
-- temporary measures --
no matter how much knowledge
is worn
the quest remains
scripture is no better than sculpture
claims of truth do not satisfy the last gasp of breath
beauty, after all, must be reincarnated
fruit flies in their afternoon cascades
are good examples
maggots will not produce it
the great, nagging California poppy
is rain that falls when it will
weeds that grow in highway meridians, no matter what
and wars that happen according to plans revealed after the fact
probably as true as the best scientific theory
boldly marked: VALID UNTIL DISPROVEN
on the other hand, if there is another
(remember that one hand clapping thing?)
why not disassemble your car
mentally of course
to see how it ticks, sputters, hums, whatever
until the truth of it is scattered all over the street
along with poppies, fruit flies, maggots and
the recycle bin
it becomes a found sculpture
ping!
