Friday, September 23, 2016

Weekly Worded

From the Top 

looking down
it’s impossible to say

with any certainty, 
there’s my house.

Climb higher and clouds 
obscure the town.

Look again
at the dirt road 

switchbacked into 
the mountain.

A plume of dust 
rises like smoke 

from a bridge 
you can't remember burning.


Friday, September 16, 2016

Weekly Worded

Along My Driveway

mushrooms, the size of clenched fists
are punching through, 
loose gravel in a ring

around each domed cap
like a crude fairy necklace
glittering in the moist air.

I stand and stare, amazed.
Yesterday when I drove over that spot
they weren’t there.


Friday, September 9, 2016

Weekly Worded

                                                                    Watercolor by p.smith

Tell the Truth

The sun is not going down,
sinking in the West,
or dropping behind any horizon.

It’s not losing steam,
slipping over the edge,
or pulling any global shades.
  
Copernicus is revolving
in his grave.


Friday, September 2, 2016

Weekly Worded

Standing On a Ladder

with a chain saw rattling,
the electric cord dangling 

like a climber’s rope,
I’m trying to prune dead limbs

from under the canopy 
of a century-old Russian olive.

It’s all precarious, the horizon
seeming to bob like the bow 

of a boat, the chain’s teeth  
circling like an oiled shark,

the ladder tilting slightly, 
matching the earth’s wobble.

Clusters of olives shiver
as the saw touches wood.

Like raindrops, they grow
heavy and fall. Peripherally 

shadows flicker, my fear, 
my impatience for wings. 

Friday, August 26, 2016

Weekly Worded

Before Bed

I reach for a toothpick.
During the search for bits of food, 
I track down lost ideas between my teeth,
fragments of the morning and afternoon. 

I don’t know why I’m telling you this.

Maybe in the evening 
while poking around in my mouth,
I believe I'll find something tender
that doesn’t bleed.

Friday, August 19, 2016

Weekly Worded

Hold the Enlightenment

I ate the salad
without dressing,
swallowed the water

without ice,
refused the cake
frosted with chocolate,

then waved 
as Buddha entered the diner,
motioned him over to sit with me.

He noticed
but chose to focus  
on the waitress who served my meal.

She was thin in the right places
and round where it mattered.
She smiled

more sweetly than I’d ever seen,
as if enlightenment 
could replace a healthy diet.

Friday, August 12, 2016

Weekly Worded

All That’s Left

is chimney and hearth
heated by sun
glazed by moon
chilled by snow and ice
a rich diet of ore timber rock 

the old mill
gnawed to dust
every bit of structure
worn away
fallen into the creek’s gullet

except this pinnacle 
of rough hewn stone
like a lone tooth
with a cavity of soot
focus of its appetite