Blog

Muffling fog
Rain squalls
Sunless damp
Trickle away.

Cleansed cobalt
Swelling buds
A burst of velvet pinkness.
Camellia!
You herald my springs.

I fly joyfully through melodious yellow,
Bounteous nectar for my early bee exuberance,
A drunken spring licentiousness.

Stretching transparent wings I dance with exuberance,
Giving in to licentiousness,
Then settling to wait in this field of yellow.

I see a lovely female, spreading pheromones, broadcasting licentiousness.
I buzz yellow,
Charming her with my exuberance.

What better nuptial bed could be offered for our licentious yellow exuberance?

With breakfast this morning
I have ingested
Sanders cereal,
Huckleberry Hillary pancakes,
Frittata de Trump, and
Cruz coffee.

To relieve the
Resulting indigestion,
I eliminated my
Television.

Què triste son los tres amigos;
Albino Beet tiene ni un poquito de color;
Australian Warted Gourd,
Pues, què làstima! Què feo es!
Y el ùltimo de los tres,
Se dicen de Half-long Guernsey Parsnip que
No puede dar satisfacion a ninguna mujer,
Pobrecito!

Nadie habla con ellos,
Nadie dice que los aman.
Nadie biala con ellos,
Las tres siempre quedan solos,
Flores diversas a la pared.

Un dia
Los tres fueron a una profeta,
Cherokee White Eagle Corn.
Èl les dijo,
“ Veo una visión de una
vida mejor para ustedes tres;
Hay mujeres a quièn les gustan
personas diferentes.
Iràn a bailar esa noche y
Verán que es verdad lo que
Yo dicho.”

Aquella noche
Ellos fueron a un baile.
Se cumplieron sus esperanzas!
El Albino Beet encontró con
Dixie Golden Giant Tomato,
Una mujer muy gorda a quién le gusta,
y ellos hablaban toda la noche.

Australian Warted Gourd encontró con
Una mujer ciega.
Se llama Tennessee Dancing gourd.
Con la ayuda de Australian Warted Gourd
Ella podría bailar muy feliz.
Bailaban toda la noche.

Y el último de los tres,
Half-long Guernsey Parsnip, encontró con
Hartman Yellow Gooseberry tomato,
Una mujer muy pequeña,
Y no puedo decirte que divertida era
esta noche para ellos!

Brillig Februaries
teeth that bite
claws that snatch
slaying jabberwalkers and joggers.

Dear Mr. Cole,
You have dreamy eyes.
Your smile makes me swoon.
Steve and I slow dance to your tunes in
my basement
when my parents are asleep.
If my mom liked you as much as
I do,
she’d say you are the
“bee’s knees”!
Pat Boone’s brother,
Nick Todd,
played your record for
me and Madelyn Sears
when we went up to Pat Boone’s office
in Rockefeller Plaza.
He says you’re the
best singer EVER!
and he’s a singer too.
You are
UNFORGETTABLE!
Please send
an autographed picture.
Your fan,
Carol McMillan (Age 15)

Seeing my family feels like
handling an old board,
interesting in character but
fraught with splinters,
potentially sharp and piercing.
I remember to wear
gloves and protective boots.

An outdoor concert
warm breezes
spread out my blanket.

Bite a dark plum.
Fireflies
dance the fresh mown grass.

A lovely pine elder will
tell you secrets.
Go
lie quietly in a forest,

I shall hold its
confidence
dear to my heart’s
nakedness.

My readers
surprise and impress,
but the tree shared.
Should I print all I learned?
As a writer I’m tempted.
I never imagined.
it’s shared secrets.

I spoke with a tree.
I spoke with a tree.

I’ve heard that it’s dangerous!

Balsamroot Bliss,
the most recent publication by Madre Natura
(author of Boston Snow and Tennessee Tornadoes),
has outdone herself with
the luminous prose of her newest work.
Hills aglow in buttercup yellow,
she leads the adventurer over the next rise and the next;
one is scarcely able to pause when leafing through her work,
but one must finally recognize the joy of
savoring each single bouquet she has
created for us.
For those of you who have never
dipped your toes into one of
Ms. Natura’s creations, a wondrous
treat awaits you.
For those of us who know her well,
this new opus lives up to, or even tops,
our highest expectations.
Available this week throughout the Okanogan Highlands.

Spring in the Okanogan
is a proper matron,
a faithful wife
calling on her experience to
step delicately,
carefully,
dipping her toes
into fertility.
One Crocus.
One small buttercup.
Testing the waters for
immanent frost.

Bellingham’s spring, however,
rises as a voluptuous whore,
casting away all
her covering robes to
abandon herself into an
orgy of colorful
reproductive joy!
Blissed, she cavorts with
bumblebees and robins,
a bacchanalian festival
welcoming back the sun.

The fool steps out
in perfect love and
perfect trust.
Ultimate innocence,
knowing all and
knowing nothing.
When we discover the place of
being nothing,
we find we are
the Universe.

artists …for a week…They’ll be different tomorrow and the day after…an especially inspiring phenomenon:…more than 200…coastal dwellers…arise…to spot the elusive…freckled…bluish…larger-than-life…beasts,…fantastical creatures…all…turning…into art…A gift…scattered around.

The fact of my window’s view is a
fir tree
resting itself before
the Chuckanut mountains,
framed with alders.

Every morning’s view also
holds a feeling,
each one different from the last.
On Monday a calm greenness
rested on its sill.
Yesterday my window framed
a grey fog of exhaustion,
while this morning its panes sparkle
as a beacon to adventure.

I cherish the variety from
this solitary window.
Tonight it frames the darkness,
guarding closely a
secret view for tomorrow

If the gnat walking
across this page
were the only gnat on Earth,
I would marvel at its
intricacy.

Insect beauty now
flits from room to room,
free to roam throughout my dwelling.

The Latino family had paid,
Renting the facility they found locked against them.
Eight o’clock it was to be opened.
Despite many calls no one seemed willing to solve this.
After three hours of frustration,
posting signs, they left with their balloons and cervesas.

How many times in life
does reality shift?
I mean a fairly sudden,
change-everything kind of shift?
Mostly when something terrible occurs.
Terminal illness,
Death of one whose life
has been intertwined with ours.
Reality otherwise remains
too comfortable for shifting.
But this month mine has shifted
with joy
but not without difficulty.
I must deal with the fact that
for others who have shared my past reality
I can offer little reason they might
shift theirs
to follow mine.
But they love me, and
we will cope.

Is there
one concrete, universal reality for all?
I think not.
Cosmologists aren’t sure either.
But whatever,
if such a thing exists,
does anyone know it’s form?
Definitely not!
So my reality…
is a perception.
I became an anthropologist to try to
comprehend
the realities of other cultures.
In forty years
I’ve made some progress.
I can be in other realities when
I am in other cultures. But
a month ago
a reality from another culture
came flooding into mine.
Always before
those realities
respectfully
had stayed put in their own cultures.
Now one is here in mine.
Hmmm.
Cognitive dissonance.
Be careful what you ask for.
If I can manage to avoid
being declared mentally unfit
by my friends of this culture,
I shall enjoy this greatly.
Perhaps you would like to
come play with me in
my new,
hybrid
reality!

Love is deeper than a bandage
covering our wounds.
Love is a salve
melting into torn bodies
and injured minds.
Love can heal from inside,
filling cavities of pain
with newly formed wholeness,
soft pink tissues of repair.
If love continues long enough,
even the deepest wounds
that we’ve feared and tried to hide,
find an emotional mitosis
till one can barely see
the scars.
Love is a sacred medicine.

Soft across my ear
your breath a rhythmic whisper
as we spoon under a sheet
after acting on our passions.
Your stomach and my back form
a warm, moist curve.
Our feet are mixed and tangled
till I can’t tell which toes are yours or
which heel is mine.
My body is honey and giggles
melted into softness.
A dawn bird
chirping us his spring song
serenades the light that’s bringing
windows into focus.
Can we lie here for forever?
Or must I move to
write this poem?