May Flowers

I always
Take this road
I know its twists
And turns
Cherry blossoms blink
On distant hillsides
Hope
As the dead of winter marches
From my memory
Honesty prevails
Deep violet bearded iris spring
Forthright from the banks
Warm scented Erica hovers
My pungent narcissus
Rears its ugly head
Mauve magnolia petals spread
In hubris
Crimson clover shoots upright
Dark magenta Judas blossoms
On black bark
Pale lilac wisteria
With humility
Wild flowers
And expectations
To be tempered
By summer heat
For love may
Never
Take this road
Again

SPRING II

Decomposing leaves
And bare branches
Turn russet in the rain

Discouragement
And disillusion try
To maintain a foothold

A bird chirps
A cat pules
A bud emerges

Tradition and Change

Have Flagellation
Self immolation
Flayed flesh and disembowelled bodies
Displayed with astounding frequency on
Our screens
Inured us to
Life
Love
Art and beauty

Tradition is both reference
And restraint
Comfort and constraint
Materials and methods
Evolve
Ideas mutate

From the esoteric to the erotic
From banal to blatant
From childlike delight to
Fierce anguish

What is obscene
Is not an isolated body part
On a screen
In a time

When all the right questions
Are getting
All the wrong
Answers

What remains is
Love
Life
Art and beauty

Some traditions must change.
To be transmuted as
Symbolism, iconography, even
Iconoclasticy
To tell a sensual story
The good with the bad.

To express assuage
And not
Exacerbate
Our pain
To nurture
Love of life
Art and beauty

Words

To one
Carry the weight
Of The Maltese Falcon
To another
The elegance
Of the crane
Or to some
Only the substance
Of a feather
Floating on your breath

Skylark

I heard a song
from the woods
a beautiful melody
it lifted my heart with it
what sounded like love
took wing
its music lighter than air
we soared
over images
from a high
but a long slow landing
left me reeling
when I wondered
was it just a lark

Winter

Dark bristles
on the light hide
of a boar’s back
of a mountain side
the boar roots
through bristles
of chestnut hulls
and hides

Cold
leaves me ravenous
rootless
I bristle
and look for sustenance
and find it
in the mountain sides

Tiglio Alto to Monte Forato

ancient cart wheels
abandoned
on their sides
on the valley floor
their spokes splintered
engaged
covered in moss
and vines
and stones
the ground is obscured
by morning mist
in the distance
an upturned skull
is dormant
against the sky
as though a step through the fog
to the far bank
is to leave the past behind