Of all the hues of summer, I remember you as pale yellow, with little shimmer, your name unpleasant smell. Not legend, like the monarch, or glamorous swallowtail, or self-important admiral; I didn’t see you well … until you left the garden, and only now I tell you, they say you bring good fortune, happiness… Continue reading Ode to a Sulfur Butterfly
Month: September 2018
Dear Forest, Please Forgive Me
The day I knew I’d fallen out of love, immune to fascination of your spell, I wasn’t rocking with the wind above, intoxicated drinking in the smell of forest pine. And deep underfoot, little craving for the virgin pillow of needles; and around my ankles, dirt … and by the stream, only silent willows.… Continue reading Dear Forest, Please Forgive Me
A Long Way from Kansas
Somewhere between first grade and old age my youth peeled away like sunburned skin. Hands that used to make forts, and make out, shout at me now for steroid shots. The soundtrack for life isn’t BB-19 on a chrome jukebox in a diner on Tenth. The jukebox came down. And so did my chin.… Continue reading A Long Way from Kansas
Paint the Sky September: San Diego
I’ll paint the sky an ultra-marine blue wash for this scene, but strong enough to complement the ruby husk of pomegranate. Spanish tiles and rooftop trim-- mix red and yellow cadmium; and color the fruit Hooker’s green-- in winter paint it tangerine. Mix some white with Winsor lemon— yucca blooms of clotted cream… Continue reading Paint the Sky September: San Diego
Sleeping Elephant Mountains
Reflecting on Mountains at Ojai, California Like sleeping elephants they lie, with moonlight on their monstrous faces, Around the world the moon cries, and sinks over faceless monsters. blankets of chamise and oak draping, dry as heavy hides. They cannot hide, their numbers shrink, bones bleaching in the grass. They huddle closely, safe as stone,… Continue reading Sleeping Elephant Mountains
Across a Quiet Street, the Green Door
Potted roses frame the green door, their citrus perfume drifting in the breeze; nearby the windows are ajar, beckoning the wind and myrtle trees to tease the curtains to a soft billow. No newspaper on the porch to yellow, the brick steps are swept. So it seems that things are peaceful, normal, nothing telling.… Continue reading Across a Quiet Street, the Green Door