driving into the sunrise

I survey the copper blue fire
the colbalt which bleeds tangerine
rays into the Goldstream street

the sweet reflection
of the lucid heavens
refracted sunshine
burning the white icey sheet

This vision elevates me as i drive
in the winter spaceship--
a twenty five year old volvo,
the vintage Swedish brick,
all piss and pizazz
as I listen to harpsicord on the cassette deck

Savour the moment without spilling the coffee
navigate the corner serpentine
slick and uncoiling--

this chariot to the sky, downshifting and clutching
st. christopher medallion, beneath wool shirt
on my pounding chest--family cradled in my mind

mastodons and mushroom clouds,
fire on the icey sea
surveying illistrations of the arctic sky slab
the luminous and blue the metalic and corosive
the lunar and frigid-- rubber and zinc studs
cling to the icebound tarmack,
some type of Valhalla

I carve a straightline
leaving a snowcloud in my wake
driving into the sun

lunar eclipse

lunar eclipse and the heart will mend
shadow across the moons black eye
all seems blue and dark
around the crisp bright edges
perhaps to see this autumn omen
is to see the very face of creation
built in the image of a simple god
This moonlight cycle called by many names
blood moon, hunters moon, harvest moon
it is the moon that crawls
across the snowscape, and reminds me
I am mortal, almost alone....

tracks

six inches of new snow
on the doorstep,
I walk up the hill
new powder spills
from trouser cuffs
eddying around winter boots
breaking trail

beneath the pale canopy
of spruce, aspen and birch
looking ahead
into the blue cool quilt
fox tracks, and speckles
of blood from a shrew

nocturnal season

somehow the nocturnal season upon us
the certain celebration of our doom
who might dance a dance of ghosts
inviting the angelic
as well as the earthbound

tricky antics of the harvest season
-- stalking pumpkins with bow and arrow,
drinking vintage blueberry meade
dancing on the river rocks,
divining futures from constellations
inside the melted sphere of snow
surrounding the driftwood bonfire
the chill is held at bay,
like the wilderness that surrounds us,

we seek comfort in the isolation
which superceeds loneliness,
pragmatic sometimes sentimental
about our ties to the land
spanning past the duration of life
the stars are our sisters
the trees are our friends


we look to the clear sliver mooned sky and
tracing the flicker of a faint aurora
the green ribbon electrical charged
and serpentine, sparkling
river of sky raging above
the glacial and lunar wilds

in isolation we seek comfort
for a primitive type of pain

snowsong

perched in the new winter branches
covered with a dusting of snow,
refracted cystaline teardrops
pearled from melting beads of ice

the tree with a thousand eyes,
diamond like host of natures many faces
staring back at me--the enumerator of beauty
the spectator to the anonymous
theater of slow, incremental change,

In time, the ocean lands upon the tree tops
--frozen
the silent slender limbs tremble
as a distant raven calls
my lovers name

automatic writer

that was it...
suddenly, i became what I did,
the mass of words consumed me
and turned me into their own master
a zookeeper of subversion,
a channeler of thought
conjurer of truths
what a curious diversion
for what might otherwise
be considered-- a simple life....

no edit universe

In this world
nothing dissappears
things are lost
briefley
buried beneath the snow

the ravens have congregated

in the cradle of my ribs
the full flock of hungry birds,
omnivorous, feed upon my soul

silver shroud of new fallen snow

if beauty were beneath the surface
mirrored sky refracted,
like roots frozen groundward
downward upon the autumn floor

a sheet of leaves sparkle
like the twinkle of eyes
beauty is pearched in the mirror,
a silver and black contingency

the pale shroud is blue from below,
a squelched sky, bright like the moon
caverns of ice, adorned with lapis and marble
perfect expression smiling,
grey light punctuating the face,
where a smile might hang

seven flakes of snow on my palm
diamonds melting in the sun

unknown exits

There are strategies that go unamed
misbegotten philosophies born of resentment
built like a bird weighed down by stones

the crescent moon is the blade
from which i swing
optimism has always been
a good friend

what is the worth
of a truthful word?

the beautiful moment

your music preceeds you
sunlight ebbing across the horizon
is love a nostalgic thing,
always looking in the mirror
of the past tense-- what could be
is, and what is not doesn't matter
I think about the name of my loved one,
In the mirror I have begun to resemble
the projection of my wife, but for a moment
deified on occasion,
man is the animus to his anima--
other such paradoxial ponderings
blushing in the presense of beauty,
woman edifies man who must worship the same godess
pale white branches glowing milky black,
luster of sadness, and there is a clarity
which comes from looking within,
a momentary silence penetrates you--
looking out towards the furure
there are omens like birdsongs,
a quarum of porcupine beside the river,
amd then there are the black birds of soul
who follow me wherever i go like a sadness
or a silent joy, the kind of wisdom
one would project upon the owl
nature embued with the perfections
that mankind is lacking, but somehow the
heart of a human echoes a warm joy,
in between periods of sadness,
there is a glimpse of azure sky
and the sliver of ivory, hangs
like a prayer, a kind of optimism
balancing the world,
a wonderous sphere across the empty plane
there is the fresh chill of moon, fog, and ice
the dreamer sleeps supended
like silver bubbles in a golden fluted glass
of frosty champaigne
all good things go to yr. head
both bird and bear have conquered
the tide of inhibition,
at one with steady becoming--
they have conquered the slumber
re-birthed through battle,
having been hunted,
they know no fears
new totems of joy

and the zen master said....

the miracle is to understand
another human being....

half moon smile

The energy is on the wane
once again, the yellow light
the opera of starlight
refracted off of lonely eyes
I have not seen the fox
in a number of days
not since the snow has melted

and then there was a yerning

sentimental for a manic and tragic last spring
when the planets were aligned but for a second there
was a ringing in the ears--echoes of the
ancient gong, that thunderhead which
snapped a crisp spike of lightening towards
my head, and that was not the end of it,
there were flasks of liqueurs to be consumed
firey fuels etheral and distilled-- breathe singed
with cognac and the mask betrays you,
for there is a smile
behind which reside, fangs and sharp teeth,
more like an animal than a vampire-- in the north
there are only owls and bats,
who penetrate complete power of the night
in winter there works a sorcery
which has yet to be named
she carves the ivory head of the spear
by light of a full moon,
with a halo and sundog

minds eye view

some times,
when fortunate,
one blinks their eyes
and still the world
is once again
--just the same

and once again
the velvety sunshine,again returns
to melt the layer
of primordial snow, of the suddenly
shimmering yellow glazed leaves
time stands still as the sliver of sun pierces my eyes,
penetrates my spirit, leaving me to imagine, what the season
has yet to bring, i have
embraced her beautiful and somtimes angry shadows
but these are the theatrics of autumn
whose final opera ends with a dance
with soul invoked and soul in bloom, and on this day
we believe in nature's sorcery,
the alchemical glow
is from the golden ray's of sunlight
sweet as honey clear and bright
the cranberies crimson, fermenting and glowing
themselves sparks from the creator
white shards of the divine
that manifests it'self in the flicker
of candlelight reflected in perfect symetry
in the iris of your beloved's eyes,
the green and gemlike spheres
which penetrate and cradle you--
this is all you will know of the soul
to be loved by god
is to be loved by a woman

october sunlight

threaded as it is from beyond the veil
october's sunlight speaks with clarity
and truth, the world crystaline
begins to transmute into liquid,
what was dream becomes manifest
much like the harvest
the snow arrives, towards the end
of autumn, pointing northward
to the coming winter,
a hand reaches earthward, pointing
a weathered boney finger
at a sculpted man, swimming in crystal
bathing in heaven's silvery light
where man sees shoulders
the sculpture sees wings,
thus man is transformed into an angel
frozen yet birthed from a brick
of lake ice shimmering
with a laquer of white fire
pure yet fierce,tempered by the wild

zen and humanity

the breathe is man at his simplist
you can see him in everything he does
the swinging of a hammer the drawing of the blade
across the curvature of wood
and then one day while daydreaming
the dwaw-knife incured the wrath of flesh
and plate of my knee
like a mortal my bood was red
upon the snow that cooled the wound