Ruckle Tea Time

 31 Jul 2020
Ruckle Park
Salt Spring Island, BC

Pillars of this delayed dawn

          spilling gold above land's length

          turquoise shafts aloft reposing island forest

          ship slips shifting silver

                          burnishes the sea:

          Mine eyes have seen this glory.

Whilst tongues of ladies linger on the 

          morning: the sleep, the pees,

                            the kids, the food,

                            the melting muscles,

                            the paragraphs of prayer.

          underscored by timpani of diesel.

Below the fallen tide, small pool reflects some

          white of climbing cloud.

          There, blossoms of cnidarian,

                       jostled by the mottled limbs of crab,

                      stretch to capture crumbs of breakfast

          sailing under sea.

Not Exactly February 2nd

1 July 2020

Off-kilter heave, squeeze the blood,

                           between so many muffles:

                           cloth, skin, bone, fat

       Clasp threads of ambition, that have

                           frayed, dis articulated,

       (as morrow beds the line of bass,

                           punctuates our longing:

                           reedy. auto-tune),

       (as Tara sweeps the Little Bear,

                           snoring on the lawn:

                           straw-combed).

 

Tried to find the hollow, down below umbilicus

                          clasping sacral arc:

                          eluding pin's point,

       (as marble softens, slate decays,

                           blossom ball of leek

                           begins to topple,

                           even as it flowers).

       (and leaves of time, pressed in clay

                           display the smile

                           worn by mistress of the sphynx,

                           unblinking midst haboob).

The crumbs have all been carried off by ants

                           leaving us to circle

                           as if ground hogs.

Secret Patterns

Upon the ivory octave,
                three vibrant marks:
                sapphire, plum, rose
                coded by the artist
                who painted tone and timbre
                embellishing a secret.

Below the ochre bluff,
               sagebrush rim the glade
               wherein wild apple
               encapsulates a tartness
               crisp beyond dimension
               ornamenting brightly.

The density of reeds
               also spells a pattern
               planted by the artist
               bending upon air
               shadowing a fabric
               of infinite delight.

Mounted onto rocks above,
               embroidered shoes for bowling
               stitched in threads of blossom
               indicating orchard, where
               fruit drenched tongue of mute.

Skid Stains

Hit me baby
Hit me creek
            and dole some flounder
            yanking elbow
                                in dem jeans
                                ragged
                                taggard
            waftings of the leather ruffles
            tanned upon a church hide
            spanning gaskets
                                ball bearings
                                packed full white grease
           on the grassy lawn
                               as my knees crumble
           and zen echoes
                               call me in for pork chops
                               vat fulls of frog,
                               the pollywogs
                               warming sixties
                               banana stingray
                                             and hives of
                                             blood pricking
                                             from my
                                             street scrape
                                             wincing in
                                             a stuttered
                                             electric cleavage:
          that moment of oozing disbelief
          before the shrieking.
           

What to let go

Mind's machine: waxed, leathered
                            surging horses leaping
                            crest of Bear
                            purring voice box
                            wake scatters dollars as if
                                                        autumn leaves.

             Channel scan fragments
                            candy wrappers clutter full my pockets
                            the flashing motes, electron dust
                            magnetizing all my filings
                            mental etch-a-sketch
                                                        shake
                                                        shake
                                                        slate.


Static spill from larynx of the box
                                                        (box of dreams)
             Condensing into fog,
                            without side
                            free from up
                            nor down
             moisten into blindness
             quintillion casual droplets
                            envelop lake
                            erasing boundary
                                                        eroding stitches.

As grey tress caresses
             temple skin aside mine eye
                            blinking up to
                            hinted pink and gold aloft,
             here, where cherry blossoms adorn the dawn
                            and rippled V points out
                            paired procession:
                            Hooded mergansers as they
                                                        glide the liquid mirror.

Johann

Grey fade to white
         scrabbling fur of neck
         scuffling man has crossed salt pan
               his elbows jutting
               his chin of scruff, Captain Morgan cap of tweed
                                             teeth of frowning fish
                                             eyes aglaze, seeking stable.

                                             Clutching Starbuck,
                                             he seats beside me,
                                             lyrics on his lips.

Johann's fond of elevators,
               the way electrons hum
               how quick they may lift a fighter to the
                                                         flight deck.
               Bismarck's decks were shrouded in contrivance
                                                         to hide from allied bombers,
                                                         to forestall sinking.

Johann's from Sudetenland
              but his Hanzeschüle shipped him
              off to Bremerhaven
              to join the hand ball club.

Johann's father hit the jackpot, when
              in the First War,
              his skull but grazed by the Kimmel
              could have shattered
              but survived,
              to wed the daughter of his peer.
              Two men born in ninetynine.

Johann's mother bore him after war
              swaddled him with pummeled scraps
              Berlin burnt and broken.
               Second War messed up many.

Johann's wheels were Isetta:
              egg beater of the Autobahn
              too cheap for brass radiator
              (brass radiates readily,
              must be milled at
                                            high revolutions).
              But his son wants a self-driving car
                                            in which back seat, he
                                            may fool around with girl.

Johann's passage was by freighter,
              came across Atlantic,
              "every body drunk but me."
              Where fish like moons
              polka dot the water
                            and
              heaped upon the beach
              beckon farmers.
              Wheelbarrows
                            shovel all the sea.

Toes of Happiness

 Pen to it
       wondaboom lends tongue
       to submarine troll of rock
       propped 'gainst auspicious box of dust.

As skies shriek
       to tear flags of prayer
       to tatters
       at year's ebb
       rip tender crocus
                       undeterred by fury. 

From afar, glad tidings
        creep up from fingers:
        the heaps of sweetness
        the buttered bounty
        surmounting blue ceramic
                       (cleaned, dried with care) 

We have offered plastic carnations
                               LED lotuses
                               tender morsel of Himalayan yam
                               powder summit
                               clutch of ripening
                               clouds upon clouds of delight
                               steel cask of intoxicant
                offered to the hosts of lovely ones,
                                       hosts of goddess
                                       kings of triumph
                                       emanating by the
                                       heart beat.

Snap to it. Tap it.
Jack Flash, my friend,

quick to smile.