Four Dogs On A Free Afternoon

Lemonade light washed over stones

we hiked through a burst of dry falling leaves 

from shadows in a shallow valley i pushed higher

autumn colors played tricks on me

old field stones sat waiting uphill

a home without walls 

just remnants now -- a cast iron stove, old ceramic utensils, and no one anywhere that remembers

the pug stumbles toward me and sits where mossy ground is warm

i tell him, if you want the sun, go up…

and we were up

a high point with horizon all around

wrapped in forest walls where the breeze steals my voice

I have not liked my words much lately, but I remember reading that even bad poetry , for example, is something.

What is creativity? Every day is a story. I remembered the way sunlight rippled on Lily's fur. The other dogs found comfort on soft moss or heat soaked earth where they stretched and sniffed autumn's breeze. Calling to Hershey, my voice vanished in the wind.

Solace on a simple day.

Going to hand out candy later and serve a few beers. 

Closing time -- a gentle neon low light, background blues and a glass of wine.

Solace on a simple night.

Cyan Pales 

The day's sapphire died in a cranberry sunset

you're just another heartache

you'll fade too

Autumn's lavender and cinnamon day

was quick to give her light away

i saved a photo of you

a tide that won't come back

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I want to say a thousand things. I want words in an avalanche, but my thoughts are quiet. My lips silent.

Maybe I should just push my fingers along the keys.

Halloween is close. Maybe I can get outside myself awhile...

Just Keeping The Thoughts Moving

I was falling 

my heart

your beat

your breath

my less

i am no good at this

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I have been keeping these words quiet for days, thinking more might be coming. Apparently they are a worm, not a caterpillar….

So much on my mind. Happy Friday. Happy 13.

thin sliced

I never knew you
or how you looked in mixed up shadows
choppy light through window shades

I never soaked you in --
just me watching you toss your shower towel to the floor

I never knew you
and the hundreds of girls you told me about

What kind of phantom did you make
stumbling at dawn a dancing drowsy shuffle back to bed
what kind of love is that?

You laughed and wondered what I would think
if I ever knew you
what kind of love is that?

Cool Nights

just a kiss

of silk 

of fire 

i'll die without it

i remember you

I was dreaming of Cape Cod sunsets as a kid standing on the shore when my father asked, can you hear it? A perfect orange into a perfect sea.

Remember summertime ringing in your ears and sand in your hair? A funny glance from a funny boy who came closer and closer.

Remember September's broken heart? 

Forget it

I sit alone with my wine
hopes crashing like delicate keepsakes

My heart feels like concrete
a subtle blending of stones
maybe I'll find you to smash it again

Each beat is a battle
but the sun rises up and then it falls down
i feel like doing the same thing

I remember your laughter
in my head like a bomb
your kiss a stab I should

forget

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I rode tonight in an August like autumn with gentle wind telling me something. Keep going. Shadows fell an inch at a time building darkness.

That's Me, On The Right

He died tonight in the middle of a hot, sticky day as wild asters burst open and coral tea roses bloomed. Our town police dog is now part of the organic things that grow and fade, and grow again. Rest, my friend. 

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Dawn's blush lit the sky -- scarlet stained as sunrise came.

Honeysuckle bloomed and the air smelled like a cotton candy summer day.

From tight buttons to reds and deep blues flung wide, my flowers bloomed.

Without waiting for Monday's heat to fade the lightning came.

It flared. Thunder boomed. I thought of something beautiful and brief. A daylily. Open then closed, with fleeting orange in between. Life and death in the flower beds.

I have been silent inside. I keep my hands busy and I keep the dogs busy while I wait. For a word, a whisper, a broken phrase just to get things turning.

Sometimes I start with borrowed thoughts, then purge them for my own.

Sometimes words tumble out from nowhere.

I toss unfinished vodka and tonic from the glass. Maybe it's the ice hitting the sink at closing time. Maybe it's sudden rain on the window. A sight or sound or nothing at all might prompt a thought -- maybe a song about rumpled love letters or a blood red convertible pulling into the pizza place -- its open sign shimmers pink pink pink.

A friend went out on his boat today. He laughs at me because I don't own a bathing suit. He wonders if I even float.

Like a stone, I said.

I showed him a photo of smoothed rocks on Lake Zoar's ragged shore.

I said, that's me, on the right.