when the telephone rang
at six in the morning
four days before Christmas Eve
   I knew
things were not right

they told me
   my father had died
   at three in the morning
   and would I please come by
   arrange for the burial
   and collect his belongings
at the senior citizens home
where he had spent
the last four years
of his life

they had rested him nicely
he looked at peace
I kissed him on his forehead
   like I always had
   at the end of my visits
and cast a last long look at his figure
   before the body would be taken away

    and suddenly I noticed
       how big his hands were
    they’d never seemed so prominent before

as if in death they sent me a reminder
of how much he had loved his hands
   for work   for play  for sports
   for fight and for survival
   to point and to gesticulate
      they held me as a baby and
         some times
      slapped me as a child
   they repaired toys   split wood
   built sheds   drove cars and motor bikes
   were patient and precise
   caressed and soothed and loved

they were his life
they held his world

my father’s hands

on the first day of spring
my mother died

she had always loved flowers
and had turned
our interior hallway
into a luscious greenhouse
   father was not always happy
   about the falling leaves

in her later years
when skiing was no longer hers
she hated winters
   their long nights
   their waning sun

she was always longing
   for spring
waiting for the day
the morning sun lit up
the kitchen desk again
in her parents’ house
where she was born
   and had grown old

the night before
I had called and told her
that here in the south
the first flowers were already
   dotting the gardens

she had smiled on the phone
   almost inaudibly
speaking had become difficult

   maybe her last images
   were of colorful spring meadows

today at 7.10 a.m.
my mother died

spring has come

Big city, big lights
Fast cars on fast lanes
Little ants moving so quickly
As if moving in another dimension of time
Trying to find that paved road that leads
To their aspirations and dreams
Searching for life purpose it may seem

There is another road, a dirt road
That leads to simpler times
Where a magic spell is woven
A timeless place has awoken
Where one can waltz with the stars and moon
Lips part and a stolen kiss shared
Taken to heights to soar and perhaps swoon
Observe nature and jot down lines
I will take that dirt road every time

Many people have been told to do the Catwalk and they do it,
but many have rebelled and chose to do the Dogwalk.

When Spring visits me every year
I pluck his roses
Spring bids me farewell with a fresh green smile
But this year
When I plucked my roses
Spring bade farewell with a crimson smile
I asked of course, “What happened?”
He replied, “The Stars fell off their perches
They had to look for new orbits
The silver moon was denied her colour,
She wore a purple suit.
The sun shone both as timely and untimely
But swore never to set.
The sea rivalled the tops of mountains
Its waves so fierce that
The wind, not to be deterred by land or sky,
Allied with thunder and lightening
To burn the lofty trees.
The land was estranged from the feet of dancers then,
But today, it is thrilled by the first
Beat and the full swarm of bright flute voices.
The land now opens its heart to receive
The bodies of immortals.’’

abducted by aliens
cried & cried
missed you all here

they poked & prodded
this doughy ***
tickeled it
making it laugh

laughing till crying
crying till laughing

so so tired
missed you all
they dropped me
back down on
my head

just last night
screaming with glee
screaming with pain

******* ole Martians
leave me the **** alone
& don't you be takin'
any of my friends

jes leave us the **** alone...

or we be kickin'
your skinny green martain
*****......

i find that my fingertips and
your visage are nearly inseparable;
as i trace, you smile, and the wrinkles
in your face remind me that
even the most beautiful things
can be laced with imperfection

A chill wind
prepares the land for sleep
snow-weighted clouds
brush golden-stubbled wheat fields
and bare clotted earth
laid out in heirloom patchwork
stitched from lean and bountiful years.

Poplar trees
arranged in perfectly
contoured lines
resist enforced conformity
their flaming arms
reach for each other
tangle and entwine.

Here,
good souls touch down
like wind-blown seeds
from distant lands
of sunlit love
fading purple twilight
and midnight blackness

gently settling
in fertile, protected hollows
where possibilities rest
and winter-over
awaiting the time to wake
and begin anew.

She counts her shells

her feet sand ribbed
her toes ricely white
her hair windy vagabond
her eyes low tide sea.

She gives me back my years.

Through tears
I count eternity.

oh, caverns of the moon so cold and dark
beside the trembling waves that drift and spool,
where urchins cling and breezes blow so cool,
such stony blackness vaulting in an arc.
upon the thorny land you make your mark,
beside the sea, that undulating fool
who clowns around and gathers in a pool
upon your doorstep, ocean green and stark.
and something draws me close, a story told,
fantastical, where hidden paths begin,
a dragon's secret hoard or horses white,
who foam like sea-spray in the frail moonlight,
(surrendering night's depths that brood within)
or some lost world bright crowned in ornate gold.