Hands of grasping
jealously green
grasses brush
barefeet
from the valley's cradle
to its peak.

Fields of wild 

unboqueted

plum ripe flowers

yellow maids

count my blessings
to describe this place.

You were their sacrifice
they pinned you like a butterfly
like a star, they hung you in the night
Each star another's sacrifice
I count them all to see
how many more we have made.

I shiver dimly
before these visions
your golden hair
dancing in the wind
blonde locks
lashing the evenings air.

From this hill
where at certain
times of night
we sit together
I have dreamt my earth met your sky
as the brightest of your stars
meet my eyes.

I'd be your sacrifice.
I wish I had a million lives
to free you from the prison in the sky
to trade upon your sacrifice
for you I'd let a billion
others fade.

I'm still

holding

my breath over

that bridge

drowning resistance

swallowing

shallows of those

longing waves

steel girders above

my vitals inflexible swell

though harsh gusts

and the rivers influence

I'm still

holding

my breath.

rush the damp 

of my skin

I will emerge above

those cold waters

under the bridge

I can't seem to breathe

to fill these lungs

I'm still holding my breath.

 

 

EABcapo 2

/dandelion/ (Webster's)
...common plant, having a milky,
perennial root, naked stalk, deeply notched
leaves and a single large, yellow flower... 

You are a dandelion
no flower blooms 
so bright and quick

You tell me not
to open my voice
when you're sleeping
and never take you
into my arms
if you're dreaming

You tell me not to touch you
when your fantasy land has come
and you escape your demon
but how did I lose the girl
who always used to keep me
from sleeping.

You tell me not to play
my guitar when you're dreaming
of course I shouldn't
kiss you
my lips obstruct
your breathing

You tell me that you'll leave me
if I don't give
you time to relax
But when did I lose the girl
who always kept me never
from sleeping.

I told you
"I have written a song
just this evening"
But you whispered
"tomorrow my love,
I'm dreaming"

I said to you
"Our future is gone
if tomorrow offers nothing
but dreaming."
I want you to
share those things
that make you wish
you always were sleeping.

Some pile 

gray stones in fields

on top of the ridges

or even those bogs 

and marshes 

under the bridges.

These rectangled graves

with reeds and cat-tails 

swishing through

I saw from a Scottish Rail car

carried by in June.

Stones too small 

for houses or walls

to line along the bridges

fit just right 

in tight stubbled piles

on top of the ridges.

I'll go back when I'm gray 

and cracked

to gather stones and wander

through fields of hardy grass

to reap the health of summer.

But if one night 

I fall from a bridge

remember my bones;

bury me right

on top of the ridge

with a blanket of stones.

I met a little
Irish girl
from New York
who grew up
on the wrong side
of her mind
all she ever wanted to do
was live deep
as the forest
but all her youth she was
the only tree in town.

She stood out
in Central Park
waiting for someone
to be a friend
but never dug
her roots down there
she spread her leaves
out the west
from hills
to mountain climbs
she stopped when she reached
the tree-line.

I hope she's planted
her seeds in the damp,
dirty topsoil
and grew up taller and strong
as anything else out there
while I was
looking around
for another
better place to grow
she was bound nowhere
but straight
into the air.

in a tree house near
the stream, she sweated

rolling the backs of her
bare legs into the sun
and cooling her rich hair
in the shadows
  
where the rest of her
body fell didn't matter 
if anyone saw
she would call them

close beneath her and the tree
where only her ankles
could be seen and the bottoms of
her feet rubbing over the edge

she thought she was alone
and so I watched her
sometimes she'd rise
to be a fairy queen

stretched to rule the wood
with a sheet over her back
she'd shed the white gown
to dance with branches groaning

she waved a bunch of leaves
over the forest toward the trees
then she spread the sheet
dropped to her front to sleep
sweetly over the edge

I climbed her tree to peek
but I felt sneaky
she thought she was alone
and so I watched her

like a cat that brushed below her skirt
and disappeared before
she could lift it up to see
what she was feeling

I hid there
until summer days were evenings
under the branches of her tree
it was only me
  
looking over the edge 
she thought she was alone and so
I watched her.

I'm thinking of a lady with no patience
she's sitting down to try a pair of shoes.
She bared one naked foot and tensely waited
Her eyes shone bright with anger and reprove. 
She pulled tight in her hands the leather laces
and stood before the shoe salesman could move.
He fell back to the floor and hesitated
When he watched her running out with a stolen shoe. 
She turned the corner quickly and debated;
Should she run like a thief?
Should she seek some relief
In a cafe on a street
Where they would not know her by name. 
This woman without patience ordered latte.
I poured the milk, but it curdled at her stare.
I offered her espresso or a coffee.
She said she wanted it now, she didn't care. 
She spilled some as she limped 
back through the lobby.
I followed with a towel and knelt beside her chair.
She dumped on me the steaming cup of coffee.
Then stood right up and left me kneeling there. 
I saw her shoe and overviewed her body
As she ran out the door,
her cup smashed the floor.
She turned round a corner
And returned the stolen shoe. 
That night he brought the coffee shop his story;
I heard him tell a man on the leather stool.
When I looked up from the steamer I was frothing
and the salesman spoke until the milk was cool. 
I threw it out to grind some beans before he
Shot me a glance that said I was a fool.
I cursed and said "the steamer isn't working."
He chimed "Only a poor craftsman blames his tool." 
So I never told him my side of the story.
He'll never know what she did
when she came in and hid.
Ordered latte with a lid
and I served her coffee instead. 
I'm dreaming of that lady with no patience.
I hope she comes in wanting latte again.
She won't even need to pay me for a refill
if she wears a stolen glove upon her hand. 
I'd give her all she wanted just to see her
curdling milk with that hypnotizing fear.
I'm dreaming for that lady with no patience
to slap me with her glove and disappear.

I've been writing blues this evening
held my pencil as it cried.
Yes, I been scrawlin' blue and grieving
while the guitar whined I sighed

Your eyes meet the moonshine
open wider than a sunrise
with a wink as short as dusk.

When they happen upon mine
I really can't tell you lies
they see clean through my husk.

Stars settle into the hills
after dipping through the night
and deep into the wine,

With little between our wills,
celestial bodies passing out of sight
discover your hands in mine.

Blindly feeling where we laid
our blankets over grass's tiny wands
making a magic nest.

The sound of coming waves
wakes us on love's warm sands
with your head upon my chest.

But something divides us
as we trace our dewy path by light
and keeps your thoughts from mine.

Clearly seeing where we lost
our clothing in the course of the night
to block the bright sunshine.

Your eyes meet the new day
squinting just like starlight
blinking out from time to time.

We'll come again another night
before the dimming of our lives
and then our hearts will twine.

That night we'll cast our shades
into pitch over the skies
to light forever's day.

Your eyes are the moonshine
your hair is always night
and your skin's the milky way.