The Shift

He says a plethora of planets

will soon morph many into grief:

they'll become beautiful women

laughing at desperate men in bars

unruly children spitting

in the faces of babysitters

cranky landlords

handing out eviction notices.

He says we'll want the old alignments back,

war with ourselves about what can be done

but the clock will be frozen,

and buried deep.

Release 2012

She says she can feel Mayan fingers

on the shadows of the year come calling.

Proceeds to tell me of the vivid dreams

that have been drifting through themagnolias

and stinging her in antebellum rooms.

As incense burns the hours,

I watch her sit cross-legged

with piles of books she deems prophetic,

try to decipher symbols

on her cloudy calendar.

She claims I will soon wake to the rattle

of history down my spine,

chant the song of my own release.

dreams swirl

in a snow globe on the desk...

for a while

I am a child again

and you are shoveling the drive

Chatting With EinsteinShe points to maniacal moonsrising over distant planets,talks of the sum of sunsthat have made us stone,all the dying starsthat have kept us boundto throngs of theorieseven the aliens would laugh about.And yet she chats with Einsteinat the end of the pier,says she's waiting for a black holeto whisper her tangled name.

This Haunting

These arms of fire held love, and more of you,

They gathered suns of days against the rain

In ways that blessed the rose; the dawn of pain

Was yet to reach the shore where winters bruise

The gulls and pulse of summers passed through.

How drenched and vast the heart becomes, how vain,

In search of words for longing long since slain

But for buds of spring that glisten with dew.

I walk this path and you appear again,

A ghost of woe that turns the flowers black,

And causes birds to make a plaintive plea;

I feel your touch upon my broken back,

And know this haunting brings a painted end:

With crescent moon, and wailing wind for me.

Branches

Change slapped down on the counter,

the coffeehouse poets look back

at the bearded, old man asking for decaf.

The freckle-faced bard at the mic recognizes him,

tells the crowd of college students,

hippies, and two grandmothers

that Charlie is a haiku poet

who knows how to float from branch to branch,

even when there are no trees.

Charlie laughs at that assessment,

but is somehow pleased, too.

Pleased enough to take a notebook

covered with peace signs

out of his backpack

and perch himself on the stool

in the middle of the room.

He takes a deep breath,

releases it:

each branch

catching moonlight

together, alone

Song Of Longing

How wide the music pulsing in the night

Which drifts to mountains with ancient flowers,

And sings a sacred song to these hours;

Yet often chains deceive bliss, and blind sight

To voices humming answers filled with light.

How shadows dance a man of his powers,

And leave pure lyrics falling in showers

Of nothingnessthat hide the heart's vast might.

I sing, or else I know I scatter dreams

To pieces, birth my day to day unrest,

And waste the riffs of hope that heal and soar.

I long to lean on chords deemed bright and best,

And rest my spirit in the warmest beams

Of summer, locking less outside my door.

Meditation On An Artist

He painted men with long beards and missing teeth,

bent women with canes,

lonely children walking through meadows

on their way back home.

By lamplight, he would study each shade,

each shadow of their lives

in the ramshackle cabin

he inherited from his father.

Sometimes he said he could feel them

guiding the brush,

hear their voices

singing to the starry night.

Ah, to hear him hum

when the shapes, colors, and moods on the canvas

captured a bit of what it means to be human,

all too human.