Chickadee

for Poetry Thursday

The flutter weighs less than nothing,
comes through the door on unproven wings,
can’t find a perch and slides down
behind curtains into the cobwebbery.

The flutter quiets, I wrap my hand
around the downy less-than-nothing,
cautious toes grip a finger,
my cautious grip cradles a thought.

I unwrap flutter at the door.
Less-than-nothing flicks his head
to the side and waits. Is he thanking
the chickadee gods for escape?

looking for predators? deciding
if it’s safe to stay? A flitter
and less-than-nothing disappears
behind branches, no wave goodbye,

no look back, no ‘Thanks for the help, Mike’.
In my hand perches a thought,
a dusty less-than-nothing
gripping a finger.

Pied-billed Grebe

for Poetry Thursday

Mizzle drools on the marsh
dimpling patches of water,
ground fog plods
through openings in the tules,
a small grebe folds down.

Hog Spring Canyon

Sun rays reach into the canyon
chasing shadows under ledges,
skitters unsettle the grasses,
reflections dance in the stream.

Breath Ku

for one deep breath

sage breath –
my center fills
with desert color

~

glacial bay –
orca spouts
ocean dust

~

a flight of doves –
desert canyon
exhales twilight

~

old dog
breathes deep
goes back to sleep

~

winter breath –
morning frost
fills the garden

~

spring breath –
three swans on
Benson Pond

~

the smell of dirt –
old mule
out of breath

Loose Thoughts

for Sunday Scribblings

‘The queen fell in a pit’ slides in
from the darkness and stands near
‘a brain nail’ and ‘skipping to your rope’.
‘Commercial passion’ pops up

next to ‘a raccoon caught in a hay baler’.
‘Rhetorical dust storms’ blow out
of the cupboard and whirl around
with ‘sacrilegious right’, ‘insect repellent’

and ‘a heart of cold’. This blizzard
of loose thoughts, this gaggle of ideation,
ensnares and burdens Raven at my center.
Raven ascends in broad circles

to gain a higher view, and soars
to a tomb where Frog catches flies
in the dark corners. ‘There’s a reason
I live alone’ slinks in, and finds

‘literary butt scratching’.

Chestnut-backed Chickadee

as seen on Bolts of Silk

to a flit
without the weight
to activate
gravity
what difference
up and down

Violets In Frost

In dawning chill
I’m surprised to discover
Violets in frost.
Are there blossoms still
in the vase on your table?

Teykwets and Sadknyps

for Poetry Thursday

Teykwets is an Aztec word
that's first discovered in the twelfth
century by Spanish paper mill
workers, there is wide disagreement

on definition and it falls
into disrepute and neglect.
Teykwets is briefly resurrected
in fifteen forty-eight as the name

for an automatic pistol,
which will not be invented
for another three hundred years,
and once more teykwets fails

to gain acceptance. Five years
ago teykwets is rediscovered
by a small community of northern
California organic chemists

who need a word for a Freightliner
with a double-bottom flatbed
looking for a load of hay
and lost on a network of dirt roads.

A vocal group of diesel mechanics
objects so the organics
settle on sadknyps instead,
which is first used in seventeen

twelve for a pinching politician
who serves poor wine, but it doesn't
distinguish from the other pinching
politicians and is dropped.

Tkeyng Buddhist rocket makers
in Seattle are taking a close look
at teykwets.

Mosquito Loves You

as seen on Bolts of Silk

When your one true love moves
across town to touch the hot singles,
changes their phone, sends for their clothes,
and you can’t remember the last time

you had any serious loving in the sultry evening
when the sun goes down, remember,
the mosquito loves you.
When you come back from a hike

through a backwater marsh, reeking sweat
in your shirt, sticks in your hair,
pants stinking of fermenting leach,
boots full of sucking mud,

one thing to keep in mind,
mosquito still loves you.
After a day at your gut sucking job,
when retirement’s in sight and you’re looking

ahead to time alone when
the only calls are from
the come-on lady who gets paid
two-nineteen an hour to sell cable

upgrades, phone sex, and vinyl siding,
you can count on, and don’t forget,
mosquito still loves you.
At winter camp when the ground is frozen

two feet down, snow blows in
from a mile off, clouds never
blow out, remember, mosquito
is waiting for spring love.

Still Ku

for one deep breath

Sylvia Pond's
still water
cleans a mind

~

sagebrush dusk
will there be
moon or stars

~

like a bird
I sing my song
to the trees

~

months after
the storm
scars are fresh

~

minus tide –
at the ferry landing
second coffee

~

in a graveyard –
exuberant lives
reduced to calm

~

new love passion
quiets with
old love reflection

Dancing Dreams

for Sunday Scribblings

Tend the garden where the tranquil birds are
and listen, they sing for the blossom clouds.
Little girls get soft when they grow older,
drummers are hammering, when my heart is full

it sounds good. Dancing in the dark,
the last person in line puts on a big grin
and waves to the river of stars, the night drums
shake the earth and the larger insects come out

for a look around. Dancers run down
a muddy trail in the forest to an elegant lunch
with friends. There are too many entendres
to double, I hope no children are listening.

Sweet Smelling Vapors

I’m stuck to the outside
of a bubble, I can’t break free
so I hang like a corpse.
I look over my shoulder

to see inside, it’s unclear, fuzzy,
it looks warm, floating balloons,
sweet smelling vapors. I slide down
to the bottom, going through

to the inside the bubble breaks,
then there is no inside, no outside
just sweet smelling vapors
and balloons bouncing down the street.

Eurasian Widgeon

for Poetry Thursday

With a high-fog sky the bright's
in every direction, a chill wind
crosses harbor to tweak fingers
and water eyes, vagrant gulls

ramble the mudflat, scavenge
leftovers. Airy whistles rise
from just outside the tide line,
dabbing in shallow water

a thousand-widgeon flock,
one with a red face.

Sense of the Flock

I buy a new birdseed mix
for the cheepers, it cost more
but I get rebates, tax cuts, credits,
and coupons. The jays squawk, look

at the feed, squawk and fly off
to the garbage can. Tweeters fly in
and out, there's not much they can do,
I'm the decider and I decided

this seed is produced by a guy
I know from across the pond and it's good
enough to protect profits, and anyway
I put it on a credit card.

I buy more of the new mix,
I don't know what it's got in it
but these tweeters are crapping more
on my truck now and I can hardly

go outside but they take a pass at me.
Hollywood should make a movie on this,
I wonder how it will turn out.

Dirt Ku

for one deep breath

feet sink
into soft mud's
tolerant embrace

~

soft dirt pushes back
it doesn't want me yet

~

red-worm's
mudflat home
shorebird kitchen

~

Arizona river deposits
adobe house

~

black topsoil
honey bee
pollen factory

~

the ranching life
knows Kansas and Utah
taste different

~

walking barefoot
earth song tickles toes

Looking For a Flashlight

for Ringin of the Bards

The approach to winter solstice
on the wet coast is the realm
of foul storms, edgy commotions
with names, Thanksgiving Day,

December Fourteen, Sank the Bridge.
An ocean of churn blows in the harbor,
three-hundred year trees
flip their wet roots in the air,

constructions seek the ground, flash-bang
the power goes out, the computer shuts down,
the radio is silent, no neighbor lights
define a window, moon and stars

hide behind clouds. This is death,
I pass to an alternate existence,
stumble around in the dark
looking for a flashlight.

Squid Dreams

Being held in a squid’s wrappings,
waiting to be stilled by venom,
my arms don’t reach out.

This would seem to be an end.
I should not bring animals
I care about or people here.

A dark light I can’t feel
disrupts my tidal drift
into another truth.