Homes Again Poem (Houston / Eugene)

We are glad to be home again
from our home there to our home here.
We are basking in drizzly rain
and missing many family and friends.

We patter from room to room in smiles
stopping to peer out windows
confirming our drizzling rainy sky;
tonight we are glass slippers of wine.

Gauging a Moment

I am aware that when I appear to skip a step, it isn't a fancy dance step. I seem to need a moment to rebalance my brain to synchronize with an assumed equilibrium. If the moment isn't readily available, a fall usually corrects the issue. It's all about a skip and a jump, a smile and an I'll see you tomorrow.

A Zapteo toward love

I dance my heart away
I cannot yet come home.

I stomp and clog for love
I jump toward you and sway away.

I am not always me, but sometimes you.
We dance our hearts away
and cannot yet remain home.

So, we stomp and clog our love
and jump toward whom we love.
You are always you, but sometimes me.

Spirals, Sparrows and Crossed Paths

If I repeat myself
it is so;
I know where I go.
I am no lost sparrow
tumbling alone.
I am like most of the rest,
seeking some safer nest.

I am in tune
with pantry and bookshelves
with setting suns and rising moons,
the bubbly breath of whales
and the silver path of snails.

I watch surrounded by the repetition of love and fear
and recognize the markings of less and care.
If I repeat myself like morning rain,
I've been there,
maybe more than once and maybe soon again.

3 Short Poems

mirrors reflect who you may be
or who you may pretend to be
but try to turn it upside down

we don't write to learn
we already learned to write
we maybe have reached a total

A lack of words a day
may be a way to pave
a cleaner saner tomorrow

A Barefoot in a Land of Poets

As a barefoot in a land of poets,
I am sufficient to my task;
I stride quicker than asked,
but not always as directed.
My stumbles are not questions,
but possibilities of direction
outside the arrows of choice.
I mostly smile minus my shoes.

Our Newer World

I do not know how to write a poem
in the direct face of crumbling freedom.
This is no reign of an honest Jeroboam
with no one honest to succeed him.

We have people who know freedom
in a tragic world switched on low hum.
We will need a someone to beat a drum.

Someone begin a tattoo on a bongo!

Don't start too fast or too full of you;
seek out a center, a place of peace to go.
We can bongo too! to find the fuller view,
play well, We will love you, and say adieu.

Youthful Memories

Always somewhere to go
always somewhere to be
and suddenly she's there
in the middle of the street,
that someone out of nowhere:
the someone you must meet.
Don't look, she'll think I'm crazy.
The world, suddenly sweet as a daisy
for a moment,
then damn,
up and down the street,
she's gone.
You run into an empty lonesome street,
mindless, still humming the silliest song
for a someone you may never meet.
What the hell! O damn, what the hell!
and you are emptier than a peanut shell.
Always somewhere to be
and always somewhere to go
you're stuck in concrete all alone
in the middle of a street to hell
and you keep singing your stupid song.

if we meet again

I'm off to the horizon but looking back.
We can meet somewhere over there
or maybe go to J.B.'s for pizza and beer
(bring the mushrooms in the paper sack).
But please don't call back, I'll call you.
I have a ton of things that I have to do.

Me and Mirrors

My mirror reflects mostly me
and some friend or loves at my side;
it does not decipher our minds
nor give a whit about love nor fear.
It is not an effective radio of glee.

When I hold hands out to a friend
it does not reflect merely what I see
but is often an offer of some magnitude
a breath of an enclosed world into space,
a life that is resolved and wide-open.
I always hope that someone finds me.