Stump Me Sijo

Spring blooms: Cutleaf Rootwart, Green Adder’s Mouth, Duck Potato;
stump me. I am lost in protuberance or sashaying creature;
a forest of thought is absent; I will name my own illusions.


Rethinking Winter

Framed in the scant scramble of flake,
I absorb the whimsy of snow;
the brief life of a pattern
exhausting the jubilant.
Frozen butterflies break
from the clouds
to ride on my shoulders.
The clean shards of silence brace
a Call Ducks’ snide cackle.
As the whirr of low geese
snub this traitorous season,
White Pine stand up
and pierce the flog.

I split snowing partitions
to meet all these objects
stripped in bleached definition.
A fresh traveler, I step
from recognized hovel
to explore a new planet
in winter dimension.

Rice paper worlds quiver
a chrysalis bubbles.
Ice webs blur the folds
of the fluttering soils,
that dream as I do,
hibernal and hidden.

An unexplained sun
skates the snow,
exposing flat crystal.
An equinox fated
gasps out,
spilling spectra;
the solstice sighs
in brief ecstasy.

Celestial Electra
burns her zenith
in effigy.

Boxed in the Ring Sonnet

The knockout was delivered Christmas day;
a brawl was done that passed just like a dream.
Your final bout had ended up this way:
against the ropes and losing all your steam.
Though facing your opponent toe to toe,
the sucker-punch already had been thrown.
You found yourself down fallen, like the snow;
a ten-count wouldn’t stop or be postponed.
Your gloves came off when fighting this last round.
The winter cancer boxed you in the ring
and grew so fast, despite the frozen ground.
Those pounds you lost left featherweight to swing.
Some boxers are considered tough and brave,
but you swung lionhearted at a grave.


You broke a bale and scattered August on
the frozen stable boards. December sagged,
her arching tail switched steadily at dawn.
We waited, talked of heifers, fogged and flagged
the conversation cleverly around
a frigid barn. December didn’t care,
she raised her head, was bearing down,
preoccupied with something in the air.
She pushed until we saw two hoofs appear;
the long gestation ruptured, braved the chill
and steaming, slipped into the atmosphere.
December stood and letting down her milk,
wasted streams of warmth around her feet.
We watched until our silence stretched like hands
through polar fronts and taciturn cool sheets.
The moon fell down, the newborn tried to stand,
but vapor veiled our faces as we laughed
together at December’s wobbly calf.

Mayfly Sonnet

Now trees don’t cast their shade, it follows me
and yellows light to fenced anemic hue.
The crooning brook, a dull menagerie:
discordant scales or fish beneath that blue
once fasinated me. Instead, I look
away and focus carefully on dim
horizons, leave the mayfly on the hook,
descending, dive for shadowed cool to swim.
Though still I wonder, what of paths untried;
the splash that I’ve kept thirsty in a dream.
The angled light viewed from the other side,
those might-have-beens that never may be seen.
A transient color stalks the fragile hour,
then quietly it occupies each flower.

Hunter’s Moon

A blood-soaked bulge is leaning on the land
and sliding from horizon’s opened palm.
The hunter’s moon has come to understand
before the sun comes up it will be gone.
Once again the gibbous orb ignites
at dusk, its crooked round, an open wound,
gunshot underneath, exposing white
that leaks through soft as liquified cocoon.
October nights are pierced with lunar curses,
that bleed out in dark battlefields of stars
and hemorrhage the glare of universes
with transformation in their repertoires.
Ordinary shapes are starched and changed,
masked beneath a spectral camouflage
and eerily, perception rearranged,
while Autumn carries out its sabotage.
Entombed in silent screams of moonlit timbre;
the bony trees are clawing on November.