Rose Day

Last week's flowers wilted,
	petals fell,
	water fouled,
	thrown away with
		scraps of food —

"One bud"
	and she added a fern leaf,
	crinkly wrapper,
	red bow
		and smile —

Warmly taken,
	coldly received,
Rose lies ignored on
	sunny table,
	trying to be seen.

Oregon Juncos

Black-capped bandits
	in from Oregon,
Scattering last year's leaves,
Scaring the cat
	(white as snow lying about him),
Jumping, pausing, darting —
	chaos makers —

"Look, Aelric!",
	then gone,
	daddy's a liar —

What's in that mass
	of cherry limbs
that draws you back
	each year?

Lost Poems

Ten years ago, I moved from Salt Lake to California and lost neighbors, views, streams, opera, a packet of poems from 1996, and so much more — but, last week I stumbled across the poems.

It was exhilarating and emotional, like coming out of a suicidal coma and finding life is wonderful after all!

Well… a little like that. Maybe just a touch, for this very specific event.

Hmmm… To tell the truth, life has actually been quite interesting this last decade. The discovery was a bit of a rush, a stimulant, an exhilarant, a mood elevator.

A better metaphor: Imagine that you discover that the little toe on your right foot, which you thought you’d chopped off with an axe 10 years ago, has all along been folded in a peculiar fashion under the other four toes, and that a little clever autochiropractic manipulation pops it right out — now when you prance on naked tippy toes around the house, everything feels just right.

More like that, perhaps, than the suicidal coma.

See them here, if you wish, but, for the most part, they are raving doggerel. They are purposefully scrambled. Do not try to find any thematic continuity in their arrangement.

Morning Anger

-- with apologies to Bryan Singer

The worst is remembered longest,
	this cumulative burden
	overwhelms in time —
Such as, my morning angers,
	swirling out of
	evaporating nightmares,
	diaphanous, beloved —
These fifteen minute irritations
	parade twenty four hours
	through your brain
Like typing "Guatemala".


He looked like a stiff wind
	might blow him away,

White hair on
	bent white body,
Wrapped in flannel
	and painful age —

"See that man, Daddy?" —
	Who is he?
"Max, Daddy! That's Max" —
	What does he do?
"I don't know —
	He belongs to the school" —

Suddenly, I fear
	the bricks might crumble
	if Max does not return.

Love Hat Memory

Troll phoned after
	twenty five years
	and asked about the hat —

I happened to be staring right at it,
	recently discovered
	in my child's closet —

A nameless Mexican beaurocrat
	was moved by a tale of the hat
		as gift of a dying lover
		and lost on a train —

He took pity — in two weeks
	a beaten package arrived,
	hat intact —

A Mayan heart believed
	and a lover was realized —

My friend,
	sensing some universal urgency,
	knew it was time to resurect
		this dead young woman,
		never born —

Her love undending,
	shielded me from
	sun and rain.


Someday, Aelric
	will push A agains E,
	tuning identity
		with historical precedence —

The good king's ancient stone
	pressing down his bones
	has his letters that way —

The story and sanctifying
	sound of "ligature"
	will spare him and his name —

Who argues with
	dead royalty and
	a long word?


Jeff can't tell me why
	he looked through me
	for three months,
	seeing only fog in thin air,

Fears my future, says
	he'll fly me out, or
	I'll force him back to
	Salt Lake City,

Teeters on the edge of
	brilliant insanity,

Sees light in the Will-o-the-Wisp
	creeping along the runway.