Moon and Trees Sestina

Mercurial, the temperament of trees
are captured in sonatas of the moon,
their white-barked pale extensions are exposed
reflective, derelict as any sea.
The chalky groves of trunks unstrung, unknown,
in silver spooned collections of the gloom.

Examining the details of the gloom
do we assume this moonlight is for trees?
It finds us too, and mints us in unknown
coins. In tributaries slurred with moon,
where sunken dimes and quarters are exposed
as quickened flounders surfaced on its sea,

or dulcimers with nickel strings exposed.
Abstracted there and played out in the gloom,
in droning tones below the key of C,
refracted with the frequencies of trees.
A song is spilled from upset cups of moon
in staves of minor notes that strike unknown

chords. When juxtaposed beside unknowns,
where phosphorescent halftones are exposed,
there, we’re composed, completed by the moon.
Days only dream of what comes out of gloom,
what glitters through dense canopies of trees,
It splits and teases untried ways to see

dim aspects of its cratered, tranquil sea,
where sirens swim and sailors drift unknown.
We find ourselves there relative to trees,
our stands and twisted boughs that now exposed,
delineate the edges of the gloom
to rise in archipelagos of moon.

As though we know, have waited for this moon,
and floating there, we’re swallowed in its sea.
When drawn into the complicated gloom
where twilight comprehends the vast unknowns,
crepuscular, and circumspect, exposed,
we share the sterling-indigo with trees.

Perhaps we are dark sentiments of moon
expressed in undulations of unknown
shapes, shining for insomniacs to see.
Our pearls clarified and then exposed,
dependent on repeated bouts of gloom
to reach and quiver, not unlike the trees.

 Flora on the Surface

Her recollections freckle lavender;
rosemary purples, drift
and dot the scene, mid
pensive pansies with bruised
eyes that bleed
into canary velveteen, 
let sail to bob and weave
with fennel’s eyelash greens;
a feathered flattery
that boats between
the columbine
with spurs obscured in flower,
forsaking other blossoms,
rests with rue,
whose bitter sorrow
contemplates the hour,
chaste daisies chain and violets ensue
and float above the tomb
in buoyant truth; a eulogy
of pollinated wreath.
Ophelia stares through them
from beneath.

Hieroglyph

Unwinding, hissing, passing eons out,
ballooning flapped, elastic: time’s disease.
The years deflated under winter drought,
while oceans were reduced to antifreeze.
Through complicated wars of circumstance,
in heat and dust, a few survived. Though stiff
at first, our body-language did advance
and printed verse became a hieroglyph
and sneezed. Exotic font and serif said
it all, to modern scholars looking back
from Times New Roman, Palatine, instead
of Courier, Papyrus, Copper Black.
The future pouring over poems found
the curvature of letter minus sound.

 Wet Drive


The valleys stretch
and bow away
and I
unzip the land
in swaths
and glean the backdrop.
A blind-stitched
highway sewn
beneath
the sky with I-15’s
cats-eye and miles of blacktop.

Cartooned
through cobalt clouds,
the bands of light
are breaking prisms
caught reposed in angles.
The hoodoo
hanging vertically,
ignite
a multicolored
slab of rainbow
dangle.

No arc or ends,
the swatch above
a wide
parabola of sage
is flanked by storm,
dissolves and passes
on the driver’s side;
my weather
dropped from lashes,
rolls down
warm.

What We Know Sonnet

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Possessing not the insight found in time,
that wraps a journey unaware, and claps
inaudibly in cadence, fractal rhymes.
We yawp, express this life in tattered scraps
of what we feel and map what seems so new,
but is it fresh or just repeated strolls;
the human gait still searching for a clue.
Insisting on rewriting former scrolls
of dead ideas there inked by bygone blooms
of us. Immersed and yoked with joy and pain,
the wonder of encounters since the womb,
our consciousness evovles beyond the brain.
Alive, unchaperoned and forth we go,
from youth through death recalling what we know.