SAMPLE POEMS

The Farm

That morning when we woke
and you looked at me,
I melted like a glacier
in the hot summer sun.

And that morning when we kissed,
you tasted of sweet cicely and lupine.

And that morning
when I ran my fingers through your hair,
it smelled of fresh cut hay.

And that morning when you moved,
the river swelled,
pushing against its warm sandy banks.

And that morning when you spoke,
the cottonwoods chimed,
bowing gracefully to their queen.

I have died a thousand times
but still haven’t found
my way back to you.

Hunt for You

I search for Clovis points and fire pits.
There is life here, or was.
Here is a bone and there a painting of a bison
impaled on a spear, wishful thinking.
We all do it, plunder our dreams
and make off with the most appetizing portions.
My hands paint your white body with longing.
Your loins are cool and refreshing.
Out on the high plateau,
the emptiness is never ending.
I love the look in your eyes
as you watch me hunt for you.

August

A heavy cover of sky – no pastel,
roots screaming for water
and it does not rain. Dry as cicadas,
leaves turn inward,
rubbing against the dry wind.
And it does not rain.
Gray soil turns to dust. No colors.
This will not do. The bird-bath is empty,
deck chairs are cracking, your eyes are fading.
But there is rain on the coast far to the west.
It’s coming down the strait
and around the mountains to fill you again
and cool you. I will hold you
as you bloom again and again
and the gray soil turns black and the jasmine
blossoms, white as stars.

Hands

The rain is here again.
It sweeps the ground
in search
of your footsteps
like a blind man’s hands
sweep over the contours
of his lover’s body.
It’s falling on you, I know.
I can feel the drops
run down your face.
I can feel them
on your shoulders
where my hands should be.
I can feel them run down
your back where my hands
should be.

By and By

I walked along in the rain,
minstrel to my thoughts. Music poured down
on fir trees and the street danced.
I shook drops from my face like a mutt
without a home, hungry for respite
from my wet pockets. But the rain fell
on green lawns and blue cars and red lights.
Walk, the blinking sign said
just as I thought about running. I could feel water
soaking onto my shoulders. Wet fingers touched me
deeper by the step and yet the minstrel in my mind
sounded like a thousand mandolins.
I could feel the water washing away every desire,
dousing the flames that had kept me tossing in bed
the night before. I had felt death so close
I could smell its breath, fetid and fueled
on my dreams. When I woke
the rain was rapping on the ceiling
and the windows were obscured with darkness
and I knew that I would walk today.
Where, it didn’t matter. Why, it didn’t matter.
Now I see our home in the distance
and shivering with anticipation I step, lighter than air,
over the threshold.

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