small poems

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California Winter Afternoon headlights, Like sleepy eyes under a charcoal sky. Sideways rain.
		February Sunbathe It's a weak warmth, but just enough. Cover the eyes, soft radio, Bees in the rosemary.
Pregnant Afternoon The sky is holding its breath. A clueless vulture circles Beneath the thunder. Updraft………..hail.
		2 a.m. Out the window I hear each passing car disappear Into the black. The world sleeps And I hitch a ride.
Mt. Tam Winter We climb Into a redwood womb. Wet, dark. Drink the air.
		Joshua Tree Under gathering rain, A cemetery of bony hands Reaches up from the grave.
Joshua Tree Freak Show Giant boulder tombs Neatly spaced. Balancing on nothing, Appearing out of nowhere.
		Hall of Bees The valley floor is alive, Whispering off each rock face. This canyon is in C sharp.
Interstate 5 After Shasta, Or Death Valley, I exhale, and head down A long ribbon of farmland. Cleanse the palette.
		Reality Check-Swing A couple innings of Giants radio And I'm back in my wheelhouse.
Birthday Note To Self Step away from the controls And think about your new number. Yeah, it's man-made, But it exists.
		Wildflowers Why do I feel nothing For my neighbor's obedient roses? Because of a sea of purple, Trembling, Blurring the windy hillside.
Red-winged Blackbird He works his field On his fencepost, Quietly. He knows that a scarlet handkerchief Looks great with a black jacket.
		Mourning Dove Her soft coo, Drifting up from the earth, Is extinguished by a breeze. Perhaps she is hiding, In grief.
Wind in a Bamboo Forest Creaking. Cracking. A groan. A shift. Some spirit is making furniture. Or tearing it apart, in a rage.
		June in Marin Between the forward motion of spring And halted heat of summer Lies June. It’s as young as May, But sweeter.
Evening Star Venus, On a dark blue dusk, Doesn’t twinkle. It’s as steady as a porch light On a summer night.
		Bedroom Elm Those birds can’t see me, Watching their treetop world Of thickets, branches, shadows.
Nice Mix At 100 yards away, Those windchimes just barely waft Over the crickets.
		Summer Dry heat. Oak aroma. Ocean air. The northern california cocktail.
Dog Days Mid-August is my solstice. It's a pause, Before the long tumble.
		Fruit of our Labor In August, When I bite into a peach, Life makes sense.
3 a.m. Roadtrip The city is asleep, And this freeway is a slingshot. Dawn will reveal where I land.
		Yosemite Valley Cliffs like movie stars. Chiseled forehead, Lantern jaw, Silver temple.
Phantom Summer The sun musters a little bit of August… Before disappearing into Long shadows, backlit trees.
		University Library I sit between stacks That nuns will protect for centuries. Books sleep. Bartok drenches my skull.

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