Puzzle   Every one leaning into the yoke, their shod feet indispensable to the surviving hole.   Both of them waiting beneath the curved blade, its hammered form a question unspoken, always known.   As if a double fan made for two hands but too ponderous to lift to summon a light breeze. Bits and…

Scythe   Remember the scythe that hangs rusting in my shed – the mowing tool I learned to dance with when I was much younger, before the harvesting of my years. Reaper, 1998, Painted cloth, metal no wood

SELF PORTRAIT   Self portrait of same…in The watercolor medium Which anyone who’s picked Up a brush knows to be difficult.   Some well chiseled face of self with Upturned Nose…not the Mediterranean style Large, and bone protruding (like Mine) But a Celtic tribal feature.   Possible; Boudicca herself Who nearly beat Rome But got…

Stormed Out   Turbulent sleep hocked me up On this beach, my usual Bed, amidst the dry tangled Waves of dream tossed percale sheets And that lying comforter That failed its one yclept job.   The islands of my pillows, That might have been lamely grasped In unconscious dreamy frays With squiddy nightmares chasing, Unlike…

Window Dressing   Think of it: A personal no-rules narrative. Ones’ private emoting and creative collecting. Tin to burlap, string to ash, straw in a window frame.   Patinas with burnt rust, bonfire-orange sheet metaled. Co-existing on immolated wooden slats; seeds, beads, a cross.   Prized now yet once they were the broken things.              …

The Container Speaks I am the vessel the earth beneath her feet the one you came to see   I am forged of sunshine my golden exterior emanating warmth to comfort and protect   I am fashioned from linen and glue Painstakingly molded, layer upon layer With a gaping maw in my center   I…

Thoughts About A Memorial Montage   No, this is not where she’s interred. This is but a pale cenotaph That signs toward what’s referred. We do not know what rock or tree She’s deep or shallow buried by, Or in what fresh green meadow damp Or desert dry with shifting sands. Neither have we facts…