Traffic

The city is a slow-beat heart
Of autos flowing from the suburbs, glow
Of headlights fading as the sun
Golds high-rise windows. Plate glass in a row
Watch as the cars depart --
Whose drivers want to dart
In every gap that opens up,
But find the going slow --
Trucks creeping, making gaps, each moving slower by the ton
As they accelerate, one
Is riding on the bumper of a car
To try to pressure her to go
To fill the gap, though he should know
That doing so won't get them very far.
Each driver has a cup --
A plush white Snoopy pup
Is in a rearview window looking out --
Each driver has a cell phone on,
Up to an ear or glancing down to read
Or type, then slam on brakes. A couple feed
On donuts as the sun-bright dawn
Is blinding half the traffic. Others shout
At those who can't make up their minds. The flow
Is interrupted at each ramp --
It's worse when all the roads are damp --
As autos enter, exit, the flow's slowed,
Affecting all the network, every node.
And then the cars and trucks reach their day's destination
And then eight hours' work and auto's resignation
Before the autos all again depart
The city, flowing from the slow-beat heart.

Restraint

I have released the kraken once, released
Its tentacles to twist and tear, its beak
To reach and rip. I can't control the beast.
The tears and sweat ran down my bloody cheek.

I was not good enough to reign it in,
And I have learned to fear it, keep restrained
The fearsome suckers with their claws of sin --
And since that time, Apollo's always reigned.

The Python's dead, the kraken tamed, my muse
Controlled (cicadas speak to her). I feel
As deep as ocean trenches, but it's hues
Produced by spray of rhythmic waves which peal

Across the public beaches which you see
And hear -- and that is all you'll know of me.

On the Winter Solstice

The spirits on the longest night
Are sparkling with cold delight.
The sun tomorrow will appear
A little longer, do not fear.
The spirits dance on this long moon
Since spring will not be coming soon.
The winter spirits remain bold --
A longer sun? Ha! Much more cold
Will be a certainty. This day
Is but a promise -- cold til May!

Making Special

The bower birds bring bright blue berries, brush

Their bowers with the juice and decorate

The ground with cobalt glass and flowers lush

With indigo. Blue feathers act to sate

The bower bird’s base blue desires, sure

To lure in females who love deep azure.

The bluebird sings his property, each song

A challenge and a lure, a ritual

Denying entry to the threatening throng

Of rivals as his mate will feel the full

Attraction of each tweet and twittered line

Of earthly love that somehow feels divine.

The crane is dancing, jumping on his plot –

He will not let another cross his line –

He’ll throw his head back, dance a high-kneed trot

To demonstrate he’s strong and bold and fine.

And he will flash the red upon his pate

To show he’s worthy of a healthy mate.

This bower of words was made to lure

My love onto my land, to keep her heart –

I dance my words to make our love endure

And say to every rival, “Go! Depart!”
I decorate my words into a strong

And vibrant verse to sing where I belong.