I’m not sure
How these rabbits
Crept in
Off with all
The eggs that
We’ve been makin’
Double time
Before
Easter Day
If in time
We are
To lay
And as
for that
Primordial question
There is
no doubt
It was the chicken
—she works hard everyday
to make that egg
that you just ate
Now to
these rabbits
On Easter Day
Now to the pot
Let stew
Be made
As for us
Chickens
We are happy to stay
Out in
The yard
To continue to lay
Can the moon see my fire
As it passes over head
Both alight my night
And stave off the dread
Of all those things out
In the the darkness of all
Those things we cannot see
But if the moon can see my fire
I’ll spend the night outwardly
Words
Words
The power of words
If birds
Had words
Would their songs be more convincing?
Or would Love be lost
Too much meaning
The cost
Leaving one
Daft and
Confusing?
No, better
The bird
With more songs and no words
Just as rich
And prolific
Through the ages
What creations
Will we bring
When we’re left just to sing…
The poet
These words
These pages.
Robin with
Your orange
Chest
You seem more
Than a bit
Overdressed for
Breakfast at
The Garden Club
As your mate
Waits on
The gate
You search
For a morsel
More. And
You share
What’s there
With your
Girl.
If I had a faster tweet
If I were more than this meat
If I could fly through the streets
If I could provide for thee?
Would you be up for it?
“I do not know
Where would we go?”
“To my nest
May we rest
— Together”
It is always
Quite peculiar to me
That in the spring
We must first destroy
Before we can bring new
Life to the light.
The mighty butterfly bush
Must first be hobbled
Before its May burst
Fragrant flowers of early
Summer. Cut back of
All the previous year’s
Ambition. Laid waste to
Stump and seemingly left
For dead. Yet, from
Every pore does pour a
Bursting of harnessed
Sunshine that sets out to
Entwine its frothy
Flowers up and out to
The sky. An offering
For the Father. (And the
Butterflies.)
Peaceful, the soils of winter
Frozen in time and distracted
From the ambitions of summer
Suddenly disturbed! Torn
Apart foot by foot. Every
Living thing destroyed to make
Way the people’s plan for the
Land. Focused fruits of
Labor, water, soil and toil.
Different traditions, each follow-
ing the Master, The Sun.
Timed only by its rising
Desire to burn existence into
Being. To breed green life to
Sustain the Diviner.
Bird song
Gives me
Structure
Rhythm
A call
To hear
Perfect
Numeric
Sequence
Catching
The Po-
ets ear
Please hear
Please hear
Please hear me
Your At-
tention is
Required
Hear ye
Hear ye! Hear
Our songs
To Aw
-aken Your
Desires
Turning the dirt
With Great-Grand-Daddy’s plow
Sharecropper’s till
Real familiar somehow
Making quick work
Of my little garden plot
He’d make an acre
Into food they never bought
Traded with the Osage
When he had a good crop
But it never really seems
Like my efforts pay out full
Maybe this year’s different
Using my ancestral tool
Cottoncandy salmon over
‘68 Mustang Metallic Blue
Rippling whisps of melon
Streched over Sodalite
Swifting, Lighting,
Darkening, Brightening,
Going, going,
—gone
Yearning
Clamshells
Open slow
With a
Lazy
Yawning
Frond
Unwound
Reaching
Tendrils
Unfurled
Revealing
Future
Colors
Of long
Summer’s Day.