Late Fledgling

She makes no sound
And melts among colors
Of the ground --much
As a memory sinks
Into the heart of me.
Time passes, clouds
Roll, doves instruct 
The human soul.

Ductile Time Revisited

Nine years ago, this poem attracted one comment, from my dear friend and grammar coach since 1965, Willie.  I decided it wanted  pictures, something glowy and something definitive. This is glowy:

Melting points
Make crystal relax.
At 98 degrees,a
Human may be
Drawn like a
A wave over years.
Tungsten takes 6000.
Dreams stream off.
Where do they go?
What current causes
Them to glow? 
 *******************

Scene From Our Woody End

Mom monitors atop
An upturned canoe.
Kid skids down 
Again and again--
Wild in futurity but
Wants authority
Between them.
The difference
Is clear: a mother's care
Is always near. 
*******************

[Click to see Cat's cat]

Difference Between 9 and 69

Our barns, across the creek
From one another --they light
Cooking fires for their workers.
This time, it looked different:
A luring, dancing devil daring
Me to do something naughty--
Sneak a beer or cigarette, where
I might be found by adults with
Eyes smoldering as if fire
Raged inside them, but now...
I am the adult, an old one too.
I still sneak off behind the barn
But find nothing to do.
 

October Beach

I first wrote this poem in 2009(Please click year), , fiddled with it for 3 years, reduced it, then rebuilt and added into it 7 years later. 

Ten years.

I hope I get some comment this time --if only because I did something different: I made it longer instead of my usual practice of reducing poems, sometimes until they vanish. The old doodle:

Ocean is always in us
Where gravity dreams,
Forces swirl seams,
Marmoreal, like love --a 
Temporal spectrum 
Pitched into light and
All life above, below
We know a single moment,
A chime unfurled in time.
Its waves curl, rise, fall,
Fold and spread beyond us all,
Leaving salted air --and
What is too far, too old
To see, can at least
Be heard there.

Because Norma's Garden Speaks French...

There are many
Arresting moments
In living, some joyous,
Some forgiving--
Some handed to
The precinct station
And remanded
To the custody
Of imagination.

Panspychic Instruments

Lenses, table-top pots
Stop instants--
Senses trimmed in retorts
Decant, tease 

Essence out of light,
A cosmos out of night, all

Creation ideating.

You'd think a
Mind that spans
All time would
Not change suddenly,
Impose what could
Be upon what was
But sometimes that's
All it does.