Pressed Sky

I close the encyclopedia

on my salvia greggi petals

pressing a mexican sky

into the middle of the world.

A blue of intense grit.

I plant my book into

the ground  so that

cobalt will grow.

 

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Street dance

A painting waltzed into the street

oil dripping off a dark velvet gown

onto his shoes polished and waxed

for the occasion.Here she fumbled

suddenly out of frame, her century gone;

in place engines, trains, pollution, people

while music retreated, a distant sound.

She lost her step and looking  down, saw

only him and the arms of safer ground.

 

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I walk the road

to a year’s end which

ends with a piano walk along the keys

of a pilgrimage of sorts

 

beginning in a turn of mood

as a reminder of beat, like a pulse

of tune along the way

 

of sight. I join harmonic casts of

scores humming a chorister’s

song of songs, a palimpest

 

of melodies we once forgot. Then

a koel sang long and loud a harp-

felt string reverberating

 

into day. Still migrating on its

route each year it finds a night

to pluck an arrow from its heart

 

and walk another year.

 

 

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Moon-nest

Sing for a moon-nest

high and low

as a moon-vest

coats the meadow

in a yellow glow

 

In a moon-west

night with a piano

high and a piano low

sing for a moon-nest

where plants grow

as they tiptoe quiet

in her yellow glow

 

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full moon

no guile

no crease

of war nor smatter

of pain

on time

to remind us

how humans

wax

and wane

 

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l

Too late

to write, melatonin

sends eyes to sleep

though mind

is going bleep bleep

 

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Rain came

to the pavements

worn by the heat of feet

to the airconditioned offices

fanned by waste

to the parched verge

trying to breathe the fumes

of air and to the patch

with its valiant venture

though droop

was everywhere.

 

Birds swirled first

sensing a shift

a definition of relief

a bird-flight of

performance.

 

Rain came then,

a curtain call

that turned an encore

into a show

which staggers on

tap dancing

into night

 

 

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