Teaching the Sun to Shine

She paints her sunrise amethyst

then smiles a young girl’s smile,

innocent

with just a trace

of devilishness

for she knows that all the world

is here

before her

for her,

so she shines.

Hold that Thought

-- in response to De Jackson’s Boxing Shadows from day 2 of the April PAD

This box full of darkness

has a small hole

in one of the corners

where it bangs up against hope.

And hope,

(that little devil never gives up)

carrying thirty times her weight in despair,

turns the box

from this dank corner

so light

can enter

and hope

(the little narcissist)

can again be seen.

Morning Song

This morning traffic has rhythm,

a horn blast from outside

echos

a trumpet blast from within,

a short stop outside

is followed by

a crash (cymbal) in,

I shake my head

to clear this illusion,

for I know

the world

and I

are never

that

in tune.

This bit of Brightness is Brought to you by . . .

Red bell peppers

over blue flame

hiss

as they release

their water

and their waxy

supermarket skin

cracks and blackens

dulling

the brilliant red,

but adding

a smoky hint

of mystery

to this otherwise

dull

cold

spring

day.

Rust and Umber

I can always write about leaves,
fallow and fawn,
rust and umber,
their sound, amplified it seems,
crushing
under my feet,
reaching my ears
with percussive sounds
like cymbals crashing and hissing.
The wind winds through
adding a texture to the sounds
just as I pass a playground
in full orchestra,
children's voices carried
and twirled about,
twined together
as one instrument
punctuated
by the occasional staccato shriek.
I tap out a beat on my thigh
as I let my ear buds dangle,
and my feet shuffle
through the next pile of leaves.
I can always write about leaves.

I knew I should have taken that left turn at Albuquerque

Delicate lines of frost
have appeared on the sunroom window.
Absorbing the early morning sun
they put me in mind of a map,
hubs and spokes,
urban areas connected
via single lines which run through
vast expanses of prairie,
touching countless lives
while I sip hot coffee,
then exhale,
forever changing the map.

It Could be any Window

The cheerful scarecrow
in my front yard
startles me
as I look out of the window.
This out of place figure,
resplendent in fall colors,
pulls my breath
from my body
and causes my vision to swim
as I imagine
the terrors which
(may)
(please, no)
await my daughter.
I turn from the window
and pick her up,
protecting her,
while I still can.