Last of the Day's Shimmer

Further afoot, the gatherer
covers ground, searching fields
of market and niche for the kill

Or seeding to till, fresh sprout
or tender shoot to guard.

No birds in the yard,
and the oven's nearly burnt.

Simmering, shimmering fumes
bedeck the haze of sunset
through the screen.

It's now coming forth in song -- move!

Ursa Soi

i.

Land of grown form
beneath softened feet,

breathing mist of
soil and green,
a haze past noon.

Tilling, revealing, churning,
and sifting soil from root,
I came upon the treasure
of time, the golden royal fruit.

ii.


A coiling dancer, matter darkened
and damp, eased lithe and curved;

brain and bone, the sinew bending
in pump and blood, sweat, the work of action.
Steam, and cooling salts to sink the heat
bathe the shadow-screen witness in kinetic vapours.

iii.

The gases of proportional thought
crsytalize in the alembic, faithfully
prepared for dissolution. Again,
and still further -

the eyes open
in nested wonder -
fourwise, then up.

See! Seeing
the hawk see,

Listen.

Compression

Echoes, returning visitors of nerve's traffic,
children of body's past empires
greet the dawning mind;

the moment of repeated wheels afresh
bubbling up in ecstatic union,

these memories dissolving,

Wake me to new visions.
A moment's hostage of condition
quakes the grip of sight,

saturated in the flood of
singing scrolls, the ear cannot cleave.

The array'd pallet of scenery calls the mover to motion.

Arts of an Arrow

A.

Familiar friends through a veiled door,
I'm set to waking
through slumber.

No sense of exact measures,
the teapot is humming with vague whistle.

Time is cleaving the air.

B.

Trace -- silhouette of former image
luring the eye in a torus-dance, by
degree, resolution snaps in.

Webbed currents of pathways past,
leaping forth with harvest and feast;

budding deep in singular action.

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0.

Folded waves of evening heat
gild the eye and hand
in a glow of scintillation,

walking, moving
through paper razors of
shadowed faux,

Dismissed, and set to motion.

I.

Choked opening, the strayed light
returns a flood, mirrors tremoring in
their load.

The tiny vessels burst, dissolved
in their bond with a lover unending;

Splashes of the foam in which it sings,

II.

Emerge!

Tangled Weed of Noon

The coffers of gleaned coin
hover in clouds
of my expectant glory.

This is a vision
only trolls could enjoy,

For I am too busy beating a Path.

Prudence in Sunset

The fields of memory
are yielding up fruit;

First signs of Summer's
scorched crop.

Waiting, while
cow-hands rush
to aid the harvesters.

"Storm's a'comin!"

She calls to me from afar, Sweet Ovation!

'Fraid Not

Magic carpets
can take you high

so high, I think I can fly,

with wind of change
and blazing rays
the seams of fog won't stay.

Drifting thought, my greying clouds
still in rolling
thunder bound.

With clenching mind and easing bleed,
my soaring floor comes crashing down.