Yesterday . . .

A sackful's hardly a newspaper,
an uproar, the only yearning, a cause shaking,
an umbrella racing.

Gamma trends will not occur to those who are impatient,
although begetters of grapevine tendencies may have the curb,
on togetherness.

Can the crack arm of God,
inform those who will not listen?
Utter the enormous calling
betray the enlisted?

Believe it or not, tumbledown make-believe firemen

have the urge to speak,

inveterate and bombastic.

They hear not,

the music of the pigeons.

Breath

His breath stops
goes under, 

races,
descends,
then resurrects.
decorates with grace,
the reborn heart.

The Giant Typewriter

My giant typewriter
prints on paper slowly,
with type of wood cubes,
children's blocks,
chunks of lead.

I ink them on command
rubber roller arms
move my thoughts
incrementally,
to the paper head.

I have a hundred opportunities
to let them fade away.
It happens so fast these days,
even my fingers punch at keys.

My thoughts are snatched away,
before can I ponder their worth.

Spring Snow

Grass at the road edge,
a rivulet of water ice
spears a clod of mud,
kicked by a farmer's wheel.

Hard wind, dark clouds,
over brown fields.
I am a warrior, jumping fences and hedges.

Snowflakes swim past,
ghosts of winter.

A single flake impaled on a barley stalk,
Is motionless.

All about me, large flakes melting, collapsing.

I examine their bodies.

Crystal memories of blizzards past.