Gathering poems   |  Climbing Raven Rocks   |  February blossoms   |  The bluebells   |  Cascade Song   |  July   |  Milk weed   |  Ice   |  Deserted

Gathering poems

I went into the woods
To seek solitude
And found poetry,
Uncovered words
Under old leaves and
Decoded secret messages
In the pebbles by the stream.
The stones whispered to me,
And the silence
Distilled into song.

Climbing Raven Rocks

I dance upwards;
below me,
the waves slap the cliffs
and beat the rhythm.

Wind whipped clouds gallop
with flying manes
across the blue plain of the sky.

The wild geese resent
our intrusion;
honking displeasure,
they swoop a warning:
we are guests here.

Amid the cedar fragrance
of summer and freedom,
I lean back
into the arms of the world.

February Blossoms

Humming clouds
of pink,
the cherry trees
bloom fiercely -
a desperate race
against the inevitable

The bluebells

We wandered
into the realm of the bluebells
that dwell in the flood plain
after the spring rains.

we stepped
through the blue kingdom
along the streams.

We could not hear
the tiny bells,
ringing with mirth.

But we saw
the great heron lift off
toward the river,
his silent blue winged shadow
gliding over the flowers.

Cascade Song

On the barren lava soil,
Windswept pines stretch out their arms,
Gnarled white bones against the sky.

Mountain wears majestic white
Glacier robes that flow between
Buttress ridges of black rock.

Rushing rivers tumble down
To the valley, where blue lakes
Greet like eyes in seas of green.


Sunlight seeps
through the blinds,
oozes into the room.
The ceiling fan sweats
from its labor.
The clock creeps
at half speed,
pendulum dragging
through syrupy air.
Sluggish afternoon hours
to our skin,
steep us
in lethargy.


The capsule burst open
Fuzzy floss spills out
Soft white parachutes
for small seeds that yearn
to float away like dreams


The woods are a crystal cathedral,
trees sculpted of glass.
Brittle branches clink
when the wind whispers -
glistening, deadly beauty
frozen in time


A bleak morning, I waken
     To relentless rain.
       Drops pearl the redbuds.

Broken branches beckon
     With oily fingers.

A deserted nest perches
     In the plum tree;
       Black and wet, it does not
         Remember the fledglings

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