Tuesday, April 30, 2013


My heart opens --
a book, a rose, the beak of a baby bird
in an old, bent apple tree --
until I know, now, its warmth is not wasted
on your door, cracked open.

Monday, April 29, 2013

The Sandhill

In a swamp along Highway 49,
between Hattiesburg and Gulfport, Mississippi,
I saw standing, still and straight,
a long gray bird, beak jutting out
from under a small red patch
on a small gray head. He didn't seem
to be hunting swimming fish or frogs,
only watching,
watching the road,
the cars going by --
as if he owned everything he saw.
I wasn't one to argue.
I believed him as I drove by.

Tuesday, April 23, 2013

A New Wal-Mart

"We do not want it here," they chant and cry --
The time, the money spent, the vigor of
Their protest -- fools alone would dare deny
This all is for a neighborhood they love.

The Wal-Mart Corporation wants to build
A store in a dead shopping center -- dead
For years, and killing all who came. Those killed
Will not come back, yet life is viewed with dread.

And when the Wal-Mart does at last renew
The center, making it itself, where will
Those old protestors be? What will they do,
Defeated by a corporate-city shill?

They can be found now, down each good-filled lane --
Convenience and good prices? Why complain?

Friday, April 12, 2013


I sleep and dream of beautiful brown eyes,
Your long brown curls cascading to your breasts,
Big brown nipples beckoning to me, sighs
Rise to my lips -- a face I bring forward,
Your lovely body I want to embrace
Again -- you are my lovely and adored
I must leave behind for a short time -- you
Are all I think of now. I want to come
Back to see you, never leave you, and view
You in your beautiful browns -- my heart's numb
Without you -- I can't wait to see your brown
Eyes again, dear -- in them I live to drown.

Thursday, April 4, 2013

Screech Owl

The screech owl sits, adorable, up in
The open oak, alone and looking out
Upon its prairie that it had to win --
It rules its roost; it sits there with no doubt.

Around the oak are little balls of fur
With girter bones and stomach acid spackle --
The undigested all that's left of her,
The mother mouse. The owl emits its cackle

That terrifies the chimpunks, mice, and shrews,
Then lifts on silent wings. There's no endorphin
Rush -- there's no time to spread the awful news
That crushing claws have made another orphan.

The mouse's skull is crushed by this cold brute,
Who, tufted, colored rust, looks very cute.