The bones of the trees

trunks bared by fire and years of wind and sun
shine like bones above the green brush,
radiant cream tufts of dry and faded rabbitbrush,
and luminous leaves of the wild rose now lit
with the fire of the lowering sun

between me and the horizon
hills and ridges flow in undulations
down to the valley as if down to a sea
and on the far side of that indecipherable white haze,
a blue line, the tops of mountains forty miles away

the sky glows white and rose and copper,
turquoise and deeper blues,
from rim to rim, and the half moon
floats thin and high in the darkest blue
just there among the bones of the trees

standing in the evening wind I am both small
and at home, held by season
and time, between earth and sky,
aware of breath and heartbeat, and of how
death is always standing just behind
the wild rose, the rabbitbrush, and me



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Falling light

in this falling light I see
darkness and shadow are
the counterbalance
to the flame that burns
at the center

of
everything


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If love were a thing

if love were a thing to hold
in the hand, to smell or taste,
to weave like a thread of light
through the shapes of these words
so that when you read, your heart
would feel what I feel for you
still and long after I am gone
held here in your hands if
love were a thing I would


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Instructions

Removed for editing

Sepia sky

there are days
I want to slip down
into still water and

unmoving shadow
into the sureness of stones
and the silence of observable truth

standing in a dry creekbed
I remember the sound of water falling
I watch the sepia sky, this is how it goes

the radio promises change
the sky might break open
everything is yet to be imagined


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One

skin to skin
word to word
eye to eye
we reach

through ether
through night or day
through confusion
we keep reaching

how is love ever become too much
too late, too soon
too many

when in the end we are all of us
alone


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Thirst

wet kisses
never quenched it
all the long, hot, dry summer

not swimming in the river
nor baths in the evening
not a tall glass of water, iced
and sweating in the hand,
quenched it

not even the liquid song
of the meadowlark spilling
out across the dry brush

now
as leaves begin to litter
and the moon watches with a cool eye
from behind clouds

standing
just outside the open door
never has rain felt so
good on my bare skin


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Bliss - Updated

Today is the day we celebrate!

our new cd Bliss
The Heard
celebration details

Also available on iTunes:




Previously:
about The Heard
singing

Many thanks to those who have bought the cd. All four of us appreciate your support!

So who's the fifth person in the photo? None other than our friend who will be celebrating his own cd at the same time!


Photo by Craig Clark. Click to view larger.

***

The Heard's CD release party slide show:

Get Your Own! | View Slideshow

Rain

the moon was nearly half gone
this afternoon
sliding between two trees
as if out looking

is it true the leaves don't
want to fall?

it begins to rain

scent of remembering
sound of a forgotten music
falling through the leaves
onto my wet cheek


This is a manipulation of a stock photo. Click to view larger.

River writing III

words flow unbidden
life is writing me into
a river of dreams


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River writing II

a long braided stream
life etches dreams and losses
deep into my bones


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River writing I

the beach sits a few feet above the
waterline, a few hundred years older,
where the river used to scrape
granite boulders into sand

pale as paper and fine,
softened by time and sifted
among roots of yellow pines
above the line of flowing green water

translucent husks from this
season's stoneflies still flutter,
empty-eyed, where the water
runs clear and clean, scouring
soft beaches for the future

between scarred and tree-lined
steeps the river moves still,
moves as it has always moved
its current running in perpetual
motion down slope, written
into rapids and pools and eddies
by the land that contains it

each year inscribed a little deeper
a little narrower, refining the resisting
curves, carving bed and bank,
etching the story of a lifetime


Click on photo to view larger — it's worth it.

The wind's singing

over the grass
under free-wheeling stars
dancing to the music of the spheres

dampness underfoot
good soil on the soles
foot-stepping across a shining field

we cracked the moon
it spilled a liquid light in waves
an ocean flooding a beach of stars

in shadows of a grove
vanilla-scented trees still creak and sway
to the perpetual sound of the wind's singing


This is a manipulation of a stock photo. Click to view larger — it's better bigger.

Autumn

This morning I watched a convocation of redtail hawks circling over the hill. There were at least twenty of them high in the thin blue, sailing round and round. Minutes after I saw them, they streamed off together to the southeast. One of two remaining in the tops of the trees nearby screamed. Fall has arrived.


redtail hawks wheel south
across autumn's horizon
a clamor of prayer

Uninhabiting the body

other days not there
slipping out while not thinking
and moving off toward

somewhere else
not rebellion
uneasy escape

why stick around
to endure
breathe easier or not at all

leave the mirror
dissolve in smoke
emptiness is not home

Festival of the Trees #4

To my complete and pleasant surprise, one of my poems, Through flickering leaves, has been included in the 4th edition of the Festival of the Trees.

The current Festival edition, now up at Lorianne's Hoarded Ordinaries, includes beautiful photographs and links to a variety of other entries. I suggest you explore.