Incense answering a yearning
to fill here now with palpable
this volume, my space decorated
in the land that harbors me
I read of Vicuna, Chile
and persimmon marmalade, kaki –
avocado on a breakfast table
validation – thoughts of the native –
wishing to be native – and traveler –
within, within, so valid
Brown men in cowboy hats
and women in bowlers
I’m braided in
my own land here in the Americas but how
here, incense, fruit, text and
Odd lots of tertiary things
happenings dress the vast black
of my interior thought
the ornamented particulars
of my life
Hanging over the elaborate taffrail
purposed rosaries are plucked
from musical notes
bounding a watery surface
Decorations of devotion
scapulars draped from necks shush
and listen to soaring responsories
The Brambles Give Themselves Away
it is something to discover
a good portion of the thorns
i have put up with all year
turn out to be multi-flora roses.
they and the vines of grape
conspire in a huge cover-up.
another fruit of my endeavors
are all these wild raspberries.
i enjoy several dozen of the red
variety, sweet; there was just
one of the black kind ripe
enough for all these miles,
and it tasted of you.
on high summer
dealt no more the advance of wood warblers thru
the new leaf, now its burdock and chickory. barn
swallows rent the tip of the ravine folding up wings.
tobacco flowers topped, the bottoms yellow like
stains they will make on an old white taffetta dress.
wheats so far gone now its all been processed. only
gods know what intrudes in the grass. far out terns–
just look at the shape! they make white noise around
them, but mutable lines of type
then abandon punctuation over the shrinking pond.
and the crickets sound like rattlesnakes. preludes
the occasional, last of the night hawks announce
thru a slightly hooked upper lip, as the metronome of
us synchs up, walking on gravel. corn is tall and i am
wondering if it will keep track of our losing time.
Status Report 53
Crickets and frogs sing their song
outside darkened window,
weave traffic tire hiss
with swish of this
and modal trains far in the night
moaning for softer sidings
down track and back.
There’s magic in rising before the sun,
a taste of space before time tang
to sit and sip and wait for light,
mind reminting maybe.
– Smith, 8.9.2015
Status Report 64
That shimmy shimmer shake when light’s at stake
and high tree leaves glitter glimmer please
The little leaf laughter with its hint of leaf dance
wail wiggle wobble in happy happenstance