a poem

not breaking any new ground here

to
tell you the truth . . .

  

the ground has been broken by

so many poets

stamped into centuries of books

the village wordsmith hammering
away

with rhythm and rhyme

virtuous poets uplifting ideologies

virtual poets digitizing emotions

over millennia minutes
milliseconds

phrases turned

re-turned reduced

rhymes repeated

words recycled

print cut pasted

lifted shifted

rocked dropped

trickle charged for new meanings

reframed for no meaning

it’s a wonder the words don’t
just crumble

under such manipulation

shattered fonts spewing cases

serifs

microdots

overexposed words peeling away

                        blowing
off like ash

a cataclysmic
storm on the horizon

a
whirlwind of words

tornado
of thoughts

poesy spinning

into a black
hole

until

no bit

or

byte

of
linguistic memory remains

Summer

summer . . .

not my favorite season

swimming through the airless sky

but that dusky mourning cloak butterfly

spots of brilliant blue edging each wing as he

pumps his life into both having just emerged into

the hot sun steaming his wrinkles out flat, fluttering now

into that same damp air that is not

my favorite season but his

summer.

Showdown

Four in a row

oblivious

spurning

backs turned

orange beaks bowed

nibbling

One gazes

pondward

peaceful

Two of four

now aware

One sideways

glances

Another lines me up

in trigger hairs for attack

murmurs

hisses

Stretched

necks

One like a trick shooter

orange-eyes me

over its shoulder

Three

disdainfully walk

slowly

slowly

slowly

away

The fourth ducked

(or goosed?) down

the embankment

when I wasn't looking

The last in line

watchful head tilt

leaves one feather askew

warning

For me

one step too many

Two spin and web-foot

my way

ack-ack-ack-ack

hiss and fluff

staring me down

I walk

slowly

slowly

slowly

away

carrying digital geese

Pteranodon

spinning my wheels to work

taking the scenic route

courtesy of construction detours

curving between summer trees dripping leaves

mist rising from green pastures

where horses dip graceful heads to graze

there he is again

yesterday floating through the fog

on pteranodon wings

the great blue heron

impossibly slow to stay aloft

wings laboring in defiance of gravity

today hunched solitary on a solemn perch

atop one of two leafless blunt-armed giants

lifeless roots stolid in the still water

an entourage of like trees

standing at a respectful distance

a scene so serene that it

belies the life swirling below

unaware that now

deftly

the heron

will engulf

one

with a snap.

Disenchantment

tangle of brambles

spun under the moon

wild roses weeping

no calling to bloom

crab apples coiled by

the vine of the grape

from nettles and cleavers

there is no escape

crumbling foundations

now vacant of rooms

abandoned encampment

enshrouded in gloom

stone walls sink deeper

sprawled in disrepair

tall hummocks to stumble

live visitors there

Wild Turkey

glossy-feathers refracting greens and blues

two days you peered shiny-eyed at us - now I watch for you

but you have better things to do