The Pruning
Deadhead
the ground
where petals lay,
not the blossomed
branch, rivered
& riveted
this garden,
this square
of pear & pine.
Unlock
the pruning knife,
cut the roses
back to thorn,
back to distel,
to angled light.
Be frugal,
light-handed,
bent shrubs
are rain-heavy,
grit-weary,
saddled with
the days
of May’s
cloud weeping.
This June
cuts back
to essential
bone, the boughs
watered
& wounded.
Fold your knees
before the muted
ground, listen
to the...
In the Marian month of October
Magnificent madness
My savage spirit you stunned
Bones leap out to dance
Something inside
You touched and exploded
Unleashing the torrent of one hundred springs
That rush to embrace
The vineyards lost in my memory
O blessed be
Walls you have broken down
Oppressors you pinned to...
(Or Triste at the Santa Barbara Sea Center)
Maybe it was the quiet desperation of the
sea horse, holding on to a spine of sea grass
inside a cobalt blue aquarium that brought it on.
Or perhaps the distressed Stingray flicking
a missing tail, as the frantic hands...
Philippines, Proposed Addendum to Definition of
noun
: a stream that cuts through districts or fields of grass
: an enclosure of water (see Badjao or Aquarian)
: a subterranean wanting
: a recollection of faces
: a great and significant number, just below innumerable but above sufficient
: parable,...
The neighbors say he suffers from
dementia. On the balcony, he stares at
the cloudless sky. How he declares
the stars have turned into tubers
of motley shapes and colors! He asks if
he could fish some and trade them for
a gantang of rice. Perhaps the
copious harvest at...
Random and I find
our landscape
a chore.
Every day we push
this sunset up a hill
then see it roll down.
Random knows.
She has joined
the sunset.
His Wawa, adding to
the weight of the grey
boulder of fading light.
I now know
why it was the colors
she feared.
Sunsets everywhere
in big cities
and small towns.
People...
KUNG FU POEM
You killed my master
In syllables two seconds out of synch with the lips,while a crooked finger points back to himself,
vengeance smoldering in...
Did we not, as children, let the seasons
pour from our bosoms- artlessly,
as buds bringing to light. Colors
I painted words in pristine
tonality. The subject
watered by...
The summits of the Pride Mountains are so high that they could not be conquered. Glorious to the eyes but tiresome to caring hearts. And the trails to...