vertigo

seduced by the summer
and crying of the crows

i take the only path

that has been left for me --

a journey not my own

through the textures and feel

of this unbalanced home

ivy vines

Long tendrils pry into the cracks

Between the stones to plant their flags

In conquered ground,

So every year about this time,

I war against the ivy vines

I planted here.

And as I pull the clinging green

Encroachment from the wall, I think

Of good intent

That goes astray and trespass

That overtakes the peace and

Vanquishes the heart.

speckled promise

within the ivy

shadowing my garden wall,

as if appointed

by some keeper’s unseen hand,

a hidden, speckled thing,

light as rain,

heavy as a promise,

silently reminding me

that sweetest songs

are often those unheard

ripe summer

Let the juice

Of this ripe summer

Drip from your chin

Onto your crisp white shirt.

The vine grows full

And no amount of tying

Can hold a weighted globe

From its determined fall.

Slice these days

With your sharp knife,

And sink your face

Into the sweets of time.

Only your breath,

The blade you wield,

And your crisp white shirt

Will remember

The red, ripe seeds

That bled from

This abundant

Summer vine.

Sorry for Sunday

I went walking with the wind,

Blowing through the bowers,

Floating far afield,

Following the flowers.

I ran before the rain,

Skipped ahead of showers,

Played along the path,

Whiled away the hours.

I was climbing to the clifftops,

Traversing mountain towers,

Standing on the summit,

Praising nature’s powers.

So sorry for the Sunday

My wandering walk devoured;

I welcome words of worship

If found among the flowers.

two a.m.

hollow footsteps

stop and start

and stop again,

pacing off

the day before,

the day to come;

a young girl

leans her head

against the chair

and cries in rhythm

with the young one's

pull and tug;

old hands

tremble at the lock

that holds them,

cages him,

while strangers

snore in bedrooms

down the hall;

beneath the bench

two arms, two legs

a heap of rags

and bags seep

alcohol and other

fluid death;

a siren

cuts the night -

rifts, high and long,

scream someone’s

greatest fear;

alone at two a.m.,

I drink the dark

and shrink with

hearts that scuttle

in the night.