Strange Meadowlark

this bird flies
a fluttered blur
all flurry on the rise
then silohetted,
fury at rest
behind puffed breast
well lost in flight

like a kite
on a lost wind
it drops,
gathering again
finally to sit
eating rocks

its song
a searching melodious grit
sailing after lunch embarked:

there's something strange
about a meadow larked...

Haiku

Sunset:
trees growing
bats soaring
moths die
do I hear crying?


Sunset:
beetles boring
bite-dust drops
on lizard tracks:
paisley print-dirt.

The little red bug

A little red bug is crawling
on a type-written page:

All those pre-planned words
babbling beyound its feelers...

it disappears when it crawls
onto a period...

escaping only when it flies...

Perhaps flight
is the only escape
from
not being able to communicate...

Choosing flight to bridge the gap
organized between

words
endings
hyphens

isolates their defined nature

not being able themselves
to burst into spontaneous flight...

Walking

Walking

is a dance;

without

within,

measured by

only

what a head does
to ordinarily happy feet.

Sunny porch

We sit on a sunny porch
the screen door full of flies
beating their brains in
trying to get in or out...

We do not feel the impact
on our own heads
'cause all that sun
has us a little buzzy
so we pick up the paper and a book

reading

between

us

asking when our friends
will come to visit
'cause we haven't seen them
since yesterday.

Sunset birches

Sunset birches,
falling leaves,
cast broken shadows
over the old man and me,

the weathered fellow and I,
coupled by a park bench near a pond,
were calling out the future,
sharing dreams.

It wasn't until the frogs began chattering
that we had too,
(its always too hard for me to sit quietly when everyone else is talking)
so I had spoken first,
startled that the old guy
wasn"t drunk,
(there was after all that brown wrapper sticking from his pocket)

"Even a frog in a mud puddle has dreams"
he said.

I sat silently for awhile,
then his eyes said goodbye.

I wondered afterward,
what frogs dream about,
and realized
that if under all that mud
their dreams were nightmares
about giant dragonflies
and sinking lily pads,
they probably would chatter a lot
in order to avoid seeing the fallen leaves floating by,
and eat every dragon fly they saw...

River song

The river

sings many songs
of sad and lonely precipises,
around them rumbling praises:
exhorted aums
time no measure,

bubbling rocks
and slitherng cliffs

retaining parts of each;

knows forgotten edges
seperating self from self....

(listen, laughing river
listen laughing river,
a stone dropped in your smile
causes you to quiver)

until its course is run,
and many stones have slowed
a hurried way.