Bourbon and Salt Chips

“T’aint easy sweetie” she said drolly. “Tryin’ to hang on and let go at the same time.”  Her voice was tinged with salt chips and her long legs propped up on the kitchen table. The farmhouse windows looked out onto a horizon of grass and garden. It had been a spring day turned abruptly into summer longing.

bourbon with wild mint
before dusk disappears
a sudden downpour

ag ~ 2014

Infinite Shades of Gray

No Other Song

Now that you passed
never to walk your beloved beach
again in this lifetime
I wish I could say that gulls
cried out for you
or that the waves ebbed
longer than usual.

Or even that a storm brewed
on the day you decided to leave
but I cannot –
that would do you an injustice
in fact it would negate
the real beauty that you
were able to poet so well.

You knew that the gulls
could be a nuisance now and again
that weathered beach pilings 
smell of creosote 
the tide obeys no one
and the receding sea 
fades to infinite shades of gray.

It does not matter
now that you have gone
the gulls still raucously stake their turf
or silently glide over waves
a rise and fall in measure
to the beat of no other song
than that of another day.

ag ~ 2014

Life Is About Moments

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Oh to live in a garden

where fancy flowers bloom

and are merry neighbors

with the weeds and wild ones.

 

Oh what fun

their chatter over and under

the picket fence

that listens in too.

 

Oh what a joy

to know that all

are welcome to play

and rest easy.

 

The breeze that bellows

the rain that floods

ivy that itches

and pollen that sneezes.

 

Nesting birds and those

on summer sabbatical

insects that fly and flutter

crawl and pierce.

  

Fox and raccoon

snakes and snails

a bear ambling for honey

in the hive that hums.

 

Walking barefoot

is essential and lying down

to sky-gaze through treetops

is a prayer.

 

Oh what grace to visit

such a garden

on a lovely Spring morning

or on the windowsill of your heart.

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For Vincent

Baleful Blues

Sometimes it creeps in
between the sheets
other times on the arm of a trombone
the longing
bluesy and boozy or
fireside and crackling sober.

It leads into
Van Gogh’s blue bedroom
with the walls and floorboards
all askew and naked
assumptions of sanity.

There in his room
Vincent felt it too.

Of Twilight

Waxing Twilight

I feel the sap
rise in my body –
after all it’s Spring.
Or is it the rum
making me feel warmer
than the bedding sun
that I imagine slips away 
under the sheets
into the embrace 
of a waiting lover.

I like to think that
the moon and stars
are made of flesh 
and blood 
lust and longing.
Or is it that 
we are made
of sap and starlight
forgetting our own 
dawn and radiance.

What difference 
does it really make 
when I fall in love
so easily
anyway.