Haiku

Morning email—
she tells him
how she likes it
*
no moon
my mind follows
homebound crows

Words

we speak
as if words themselves
have the power to make
birds fly

it is no wonder that you feel
this way, the world has changed
so much, just in the last ten
thousand years

words are perhaps not the same
as they were when they came out
of language, in fact, we once were
terribly worried about the moral effect

we have serious concerns
on what people might say, in verse,
even worse
that they might stir strange
ideas about....the
nature of things, even

Words are not gods

Poets, those, maker believers!
we shall make them tell us
what we don't know...

Monkey Poetry

I know that a room full of monkeys have typed all my poetry
My monkey mind runs the show, after all
I take credit for the random blooms which come
from the seeds of their discarded bananas

Untitled

the blaze
in eyes
that wakes up
the night
the moon

the kiss
that stays
in the solitude
together

then

a smile
half-opens
reluctant
to miss it all

Waking from a Siesta

She leans against the wall
pale left hand on her waist
one eye out the window
one on my sheets - tobacco
and crescents of hasish

she walks slow to the window
lifts the curtain
and folds it back
so the bent oblong of sun
hoists itself across the room
framing the bed
and my bent arm

she is crossng the sun
sits on her leg here
sweeping off the makings

traces the thin bones on me
turns toppling slow on my stomach
Shiva Shihva Shivaaah

I am very still
I take in all the angles of the room

Suspended

What is in the saying of things?
What is in the doing of things?
What is in being the things?

Show me my corner
and I will sit and watch the world go by
with neither delight nor dismay
negating all perceptions
indulging in a dreamless slumber

Untitled Poem

Driving into the setting sun
watch it rise again
in the rearview
hours fly by
miles roll on
destination always the same
an escape
an arrival
hellos and goodbyes
always connected
but slightly removed
watching myself...

Thunderstorms

I am ferocious in my leisure.
The lightninng strikes
in beautiful directions
mostly away from me.
I am uncompromising
in my attitude

Nomad Poet

the nomad poet
the poet nomad
with the words
he carefully chose
shoes chewed
how did it feel
no direction that don't point to
.... the poem