Smoke Ghost

Green to Gold
Gold to Rust
Rust to . . .

He rises from the weathered leaves and smoldering ashes
A coiling smoke thing twisting up through the barren branches
Once filled with fire
now empty

Grey noise rustles in his throat
And his fingers try to touch everything before the wind can
dispel him

He calls something like my name
But I can feel the acorns and maple seeds
Hidden in the leaves
And in this moment
know my measure of Eternity

Erato’s Plaything

The Muse caresses you

Your heart receives
the molten steel idea

You hold the cherry-red casting
there inside you

Until it cools enough to touch
Cools enough
that it won’t burn the paper

There it rests on the table
Still bearing the delicate traces
of her fingerprint

On Escher and Becoming

The weathered callused hand
A yellow Ticonderoga number 2 pencil with tooth marks near the eraser
Becoming scratch patches in the textured paper
areas of light and dark
Twisting and
Graphite dragons with just a hint of leer
in their sparkling eyes
Becoming a marching horde across the littered desk top
Each with one last enigmatic look before
Becoming interlocking sectors of light and dark
An ancient number 2 pencil with no eraser
Becoming a younger hand

It all started with poetry

It all started with poetry
Had to be poetry

Now look where its gone
I’ve lost all respect for Syntax
My grammar’s shot all to hell
Punctuation was never my forte
And ellipses. . . let’s not even go there
so many dangling phrases
(At least my participles are secured)

Let’s not even talk about spelling
Any kind of Authority . . .
(I’m every grammar nazi’s dream)

It all started with poetry
Who knows where it goes from here