BOW SPRIT©
DAS SEIT
imagine nothing in this field
these words are not here
if this were a tower
ivy would not grow on it
no bird would build a nest
traffic in the street would vanish right through it
ROSEBUDS
how does it feel to be a pitted date?
sweet
no entanglements
the shell's there for all to see
but no more dates
the aisles are free of debris
people come and go
let them speak of Michelangelo
and why not?
join the conversation
cars whiz , birds fly
pink Cadillacs with antique plates
markets brimmed with the daily catch
people who enjoy screaming
scudding 'cross the deep
the yellow sky is curdled milk
a storm approaching
storm of storms
sound of hail
a tornado
then the fireball
reflections
called perhaps insanity
until it's too late
and doesn't matter any more
legacy dates
how sweet
this fleeting moment
CHUNNEL VISION
hand shaped stones form a terrace
textured in slanting light
and impossible willow trees
row houses of Old San Francisco
on a hill by the road
are smiling unaccountably
almost forgotten, resurrected in flames
revisiting a life thought normal
at the time
strange music
and sagacious people with pencil sharpeners
long rows of dusky industrial sheds
inherent light stored in them
avocado leaves at eventide in their shadowed glow
a waft of cedars
a gaggle of gossipers
exchanging copper bracelets on the steps
of a white plastered Spanish adobe
and the light
HAIL
all hail the Change!
everyone will bow
depleted, polluted, laid waste
the planet is reacting
just the usual stuff that by magic of ads
is supposed to disappear
billions spent to nullify elections
people cast their votes at the beach
heeding signs about rip tides
so telescopes can see the stars
please don't pollute the atmosphere with light
well, scrap that – we'll go there
one giant step for Lockheed
all boats have indeed been raised as glaciers melt
more boats, higher and higher
people squeezed tighter and tighter
wealth for the owners
ignoring costs of a Middle Passage
to space or underwater cities
or dreams to pacify the captives
CITY ART
a street maintenance crew appeared
six or seven, with a foreman in broad rimmed hat
who strode the proceedings, cup of coffee in hand
it was quite impressive on a sunny day
good time to seal the cracks
very organized, each man a specialist
the air blaster, dislodging loose debris
the healer, applying molten tar from a furnace on wheels
the cauterizer, following with a cold water spray
the caravan leader, point man driving truck
a day after the spectacle had passed
I noticed right next to my truck a pattern
unlike any other on the street
sort of a tree, complete with a blossom on one limb
maybe it should be photographed
if I were a poet it would inspire all sorts of fantasies
but I am just a gardener
and I think maybe the blossom was a mistake
DAISEY FIELDS
a ship without sails, propeller or hull
on a voyage without counter weights
brings gulls with cell phones
chattering incessantly
swooping down Canterbury fields
baking sunny literature
into a fine powder
sprinkled on morning eggs
the effect:
Valhalla on a skateboard
legislation concerning delivery of milk
at your doorstep
in those days
is postponed
and all the yellowed days of accordions
for the ship that travels without sails
