08/23/2013 #1

Can you taste it in
the wind -- the distant hint of
freshly fallen rain?

08/23/2013 #2

Time is that constant
but troublesome friend who helps
and halts all our work.

White light stained with gray,
pocked by ancient rocks; mirror
to the nearest star.

A whisper on the
morning wind; leaves prepare to
play their autumn air.

Pacific clouds cast
blue shadows across the sky.
The sun shuts tired eyes.

Flames of molten gold
wreathed in pink mist devour the
delicate blue stone.

Last year's blackberry,
sere and molded, still clings to
the brittle brown thorn.

Johnnie, please help me!
Vodka is a vulgar means
to release my mind.

A snapshot of time
framed in succinct lines -- poet's
Impressionism.

Stars in strict array
layer on layer, sparkle;
a city at bay.

A dry wind withers
the leaf's last green; tears rain on
the forsaken field.

Strands of silver
dripping with diamonds; in the
center, a dark jewel.

The weaver rests in
her wet fairy net, drinking
the cool morning dew.

A rising sun wipes
the lines dry. Invisible
lines bind a stray fly.

The city stands, a
shadow of itself, wrapped in
its musty old throw.

Borne west on the deep
Sound, a barnacled belly
plows a lonely path.

Dawn cracks as he clears
his throat, a rush of air to
warn the fog away.

Lesser fish learn to
leave his course. Seagulls swarm in
his wide, raging wake.

Waves spill over the
shore; rocks and pebbles
sing upon the sand.

Banana slugs, though
real, have no peel. How do they
claim their name? Good taste.

Salmon sunrise fades;
Cascade peaks ablaze in a
tarnished golden haze.

Last of the season,
child of the mist blushed red with
the sun's parting kiss.

Green brambles bake in
the white August sun; berries
boil along the vines.

Nettles, thorns threaten
all passers-by but cannot
disguise their sweet prize.

I defy the sharp warnings,
red blood on my hands,
black juice on my tongue.

Between the clouded
mountains and the gray veil of
rain, blue dawn dares peer.

Fiery needles snap
Underfoot; burning breath -- hot
Metal and acid.