abschweifen

Don’t wander too far,

little one, from your

wee world of pocket-

phones, pursehounds,

and bug-eye glasses. Don’t

wander so far you cannot

return to worship your

flat plastic god in concrete

temples, standing high as

watch towers to keep, guard

against that old world walled

out until grass unknown

grows in the potholes

and the butterflower

loses its grey shell

into the unkind park

of men. Don’t leave the

black webstrands to

drive down deep

tracks of dusty shale,

and be swallowed alive.

For the world you have

bound, beaten, and

buggered to make that

pretty picture under

your MySpace giggles,

still sits on the edge

of your civilized world,

Hungry.

twa pomes.

Easter
Day-dropped dew ringing the shout,
the thorn-crown red-weeping,
and the sad-glad news of dogwood
timber holding the man.
Today,
life begins.

The wee white cat.
I fear you, wee white cat,
footpad of the night, and more so
than your sablecoat brother.
Which hollow hill did you sneak from,
to munch on mortal mice?
You jump away from the car speeding —
do you fear the weight or the iron
that makes it?

Memoriarum

memories of us staring up together,
diamond-dappled velvet
reaching above,
calm embracing air
filled by the dry scent
of fir needles, pine sap,
whisper-quiet owl wings,
bringing more restless summers –
sun pouring orange through smoke
only to glint back in rainbows
rippling from river-rills,
smokey sweet-sour taste
of barbeque on my tongue,
your summerleaf-green eyes
laughing back at me,
winking like a mischievous brounie,
caught dipping in the whisky.

I see long nights with decks of cards,
sitting far in the back of a old bus,
watching the long miles roll away
to see the city on the bay
and the long gold thread
spread between land and land,
see the mix of water falling and rain,
pool under waterfall, fern-shrouded,
exhilaration to tired boys, the thrill
of leather balls soaring away,
whacked out by hickory wood,
rusty smell of shoes running dust-paths.

memories re-kenned
by eldritch eyes
sing summer’s hymn,
as harvest-sweet hair
and the berry-taste of your lips
make more.