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