Mountain Crone (Poem on the Rock)

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Mountain Crone

to you I look

show me how

to love

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Horseman

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Horseman I smell your soldered scent on my dark blue v neck sweater. I know you are gone for good. Which boots are right for a walk through the mud? Do I stop at the top of the hill? March on to bottom of the glen?  Where can I sit and feel winsome as a younger me? How I long to stare at a horizon as if you haven’t already galloped through. 
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Tree-Ache (unfinished)

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  Tree-ache. These two bend toward each other then split. Their parts never meet. Not at the root, not at the feet. Limb to limb, they remain just out of reach.  But they bend toward each other, two adams apples that almost kiss. I could love you if  this one whispers. I could do that if  that one pines. What is it between them?  Race? Politics? Would-be  in laws? The number 3? I could do that if  that one whispers. I could love you if  this one pines. Air. Air builds narrows like these. Come on, we all know Air’s  greatest pleasure… to rush
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Summer’s Callin

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 Summer’s Callin’ The day I picked up your little book of poems A lady at the County-Clerk’s called me Summer On accident, first time in my life Someone’s Looked at this face and thought Yeah, that’s it. So imagine my surprise When I read the table of contents aloud, how Summer was a repeating title. There’s mention made of her In all the parts. I asked the fairy’s What I needed to ponder While I cleaned my house  instead. Like a mean bitch Princess of Autumn snickered “Study.” So study I will or I won’t, while I pick up everything Whether I find the energy drink or not, and their gone, and your collection of little poems is here.
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The Stand Still (a Mary Oliver Copy Change)

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Rosemerry Wahtolha Trommer once told me if it’s true, the opposite is also true. That inspired me to try this take on Mary Oliver’s The Journey. Enjoy! THE STAND STILL Everyday you really don’t know what you have to do and you stop, though the voices within you keep whispering their good advice— Though part of the house ceases to tremble, and you feel the new-nothing tug at your spine. “Break your death!” Each voice exhales. But you don’t move. You don’t know what you have to do though the water seeps with all its twinkling toes through the very foundations. Though their joy is delighting. It is not yet late enough, and a calm day and your chair, empty of fallen leaves and sand. And leap by leap, as you bring your voices in closer, the stars soften their burn over the cloudless clear and there is the oldest voice there ever was which impulsively you mistake as your own that abandons you as you stay further and further away from the world, uncertain about doing the many things you could...
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