Dandy Lionheart

She's as weak as an old, mothy dandelion--

not one with hair like the sun,

but with a dusty halo of grey smoke

And the lawnmower is buzzing

towards her in straight lines

up and

down

the lush green lawn--

up and

down

a predictable path, creating

a hypnotic pattern in the earth's

prickly carpet.

Her fragile, powdery head (((floats)))

above the grass and should be able

to see: the oncoming doom. But

she can't move. She's planted,

rooted in the stubborn dirt of her fate.

The two-way abstraction called love

is propped up by air

shaped into sounds

of hollow faith:

words;

at times, even less than.

Because as long as the mirage

****hovers****

inside the tiny jewelry box

inside her mirrored ears,

she will swim in that pool

until it all dries up,

sucking the last drop of milk

from

her hapless

dandelion

heart.

Sunshadow

the sun outside casts a long dark shadow inside

and my heart pumps nothing

maybe sleep is what I need

I hid your pictures

but I still see them

us together and me happy

.locked inside.

.that little box.

.locked in time.

then the bright days of you

disappear

when I roll

over

and

open

my eyes---

memories torn by a tear.

eye's cocktail

My red glass is full

on the table but you keep pouring

I don't see it but I feel it

when the sweet overflow drips out

bubbles and runs over the edge

now on my thighs

I want to tell you to stop

but I can't then you drop a pebble inside

so my drink splashes over and I catch it

now in my mouth

Somehow your words go unheard-

You shout in my face and I close

my ears in the dust storm but slurp up

the meaning in my palms now wet

not once

not twice

not three times-

I lose count -- how deep is this well?,

five fingers shallow-ly stir

-----the cocktail.

Alas lonely the cup sits

unable to quench

this ever-growing

dry -- bone -- thirst

The Slow Clock

click - tock

the slow clock

ticks

slower

bending time

backwards

to moments preserved

to be replayed and continued.

click - tock

-caught in a freeze frame-

the window narrows,

squeezing and heightening

the pinch in the chest and the tickle beneath. Agony

meets ecstasy. Horror meets temptation.

Anxiety of the most precious variety. Drunk

on fantasy and hateful of reality,

they sit.

I'm Fine, Just Throw Me a Fastball

Sometimes life throws you a curve ball. No, I take that back. They all seem to be curve balls. Everything has a catch or a snag. Just once, I wish life would throw me a fast ball, straight down the middle: something I can see coming and know exactly what to do with it.

Yesterday a dear friend wrote and asked me how I'm doing. "Fine," I said. "Fine?" he asked. Yes, fine. Work is fine. Family is fine. Friends are fine. When I responded "fine," I meant that in a positive way. But when he challenged me on it, I was forced to acknowledge a rather lackluster sensation.

The problem is that nothing is easy. Sometimes it’s a minor issue (as in, why must the Virginia Department of Transportation funnel five lanes of traffic into a single lane on I66 Saturday morning when I need to be in Charlottesville?). But sometimes life’s difficulties are not so minor. That’s when I have to wonder if it's me. Is there something deeply rooted in my psyche that complicates my world unnecessarily? The answer is “probably,” but that would take hundreds of dollars and hours of therapy to figure out. So, instead I write. That can help. So can photography. Some days are just like that.

Return to Sender

Returned mail lands in the wrong hands,

and with that the lights go out.

The owner sneaks tainted loot.

A message lost is won unwanted.

A moment of wonder,

with new words

all to sit and ponder.

Today tests tomorrow

tests yesteryear

while a ghost voice flounders

in our ear

crying an anti-cheer.

Blackbird be gone.

Knowing some

can be worse than

knowing all

or even,

knowing none.

Doc, are these dreams

made of fear

or are they some sort of

real world seer?

Pre-tested temptations

sound sweet

way down yonder in the holler

where you can still stall her

with silence

and fodder.

Impossible to delete,

letters unsifted, torn, and drifted,

read in a dark, dank room,

clutter the diary

with craze

unfounded.

But old blood turns blue.

It needs air and care and flair,

and a one-way valve

for two.

So maybe

rap, rap, rap back

you raven bird.

Maybe just "accept"

how the red paper drips

a grey story down,

as it drops and slips

easily into the shadowy spout

even if it sticks to the pipes

now drowned.

Stop Looking at Me

You -

Stop looking at me.

I won't look at you

because to do so would be to acknowledge

your judgment

of me,

and validate it.

I know what you're thinking

and you're wrong.

You don't know what I know.

You don't know all of the facts

and the gestures

that I know.

You don't know the lack of facts

and the lack of gestures

that I know.

You don't know my confusion.

You don't know my need.

I could never explain all that you don't know

to you.

So again,

please,

stop looking at me.

We need to pretend

that we're not face to face.

That there is no tear welling in my eye

for no reason.

Riverdream

Sixty miles from the horns of Capitol Hill is the old historical town of Fredericksburg. This is not the strip mall-congested civil war haven that can suck the life out of you in Route 3 West Fredericksburg. No, I'm talking about the cobble-stone-sidewalk, homes of George Washington's sister and mother, civil war haven that is somehow endlessly charming in Route 3 East Fredericksburg. Being about mid-way between Washington, DC and Richmond, this area was a hotbed during the Civil War where about 100,000 people died as a result of four battles (Chancellorsville, Fredericksburg, Spotsylvania, and Wilderness). For that reason, it's a destination for American history buffs.

This side of Interstate 95 also hoards another treasure: the riverbed of the Rappahannock -- and the last few weekends, I've been hooked on its lure. Last Sunday during a tubing trip, I witnessed a large falcon brunching on a large fish (well, 12-inches long seems big for this size river). The bird perched on a branch above the water and pecked away at the wiggling fish trapped in its talons as I gazed from below. It was quite a gravity-defying spectacle of agility. This weekend was no disappointment either, watching some sort of water bird (duck?) dive beneath the river's surface for minutes at a time for prey below - no more than twenty feet away.

I'm certain I'll find my way back to the riverbanks again, though I promise it's not to watch mother nature's predators at work. There is something so inherently peaceful and soul soothing to be near that river, I can assure you, the fish feasts are merely a minor distraction from the beauty of it all. Here is a little something I borrowed from it today. Bear with me as it's still a little fresh.

Riverdream

Rippling water surrounds me, surrounds and 

drownds the  silent silence, 

making a new silence of water 

anew 

 silence of water  that 

moves and 

takes me downstream      before 

whirlpooling 

back 

to where fish     - jump -           and 

 dodge 

great rocks 

and 

diving  birds.

In this quiet, 

the sun dances 

a water tango - 

reflecting sharply 

while melting softly 

                 into the love creatures 

                                       below.