farmstead blues

waiting notcalmly
for her I'mherecall,
hours after cock-a-doodle-doo
when she was to give her I'mherecall.

letting shadows move to opposite sides
of sweet corn fields, it's now afternoon.

hen is late once again and
rooster pouts.

the spread

farmer poked his foot
while pitching his hay
to feed his oxen
to pull his plow across the fields
and cows to stand and watch his fields
while dirty farmer
pitches his hay
while in his fields grows such sweet corn
to feed his wife
who fixes him dinner and
pricks herself
while knitting him socks
while he pitches hay
the forks to feed her
while she hums in harmony
with his pitching,
dreaming of their first time,
sixteen, out in the hay.

the spread

farmer poked his foot
while pitching his hay
to feed his oxen
to pull his plow across the fields
and cows to stand and watch his fields
while dirty farmer
pitches his hay
while in his fields grows such sweet corn
to feed his wife
who fixes him dinner and
pricks herself
while knitting him socks
while he pitches hay
the forks to feed her
while she hums in harmony
with his pitching,
dreaming of their first time,
sixteen, out in the hay.

haiku

gossamer threads the
hedges, woven gently to
ensnare passing flies

petals, pads, and ponds

(Impressions of Claude Monet's Nympheas, Effet du Soir)

Rising from the surface of a lily pond,
two suns shine in the afternoon.
White petals their beams, they loom overhead.

Lying prone, the blooms of suns
leaving hints of silver on their cumulus faces,
the Pads assemble, their hungry mouths open.

This weight of Petal and Pad
is bornethe the blue water-sky --
which never is punctured by them.

"What saddening beasts you are, Petals,
showing the Greens your mid-day light.
You'll soon wither and your beauty with you.

And you, Greens, your dull lives never
shall blossom -- your fear of the exotic
leaves you starving in my waters.

I am your fertile mother and welcoming father.

I reflect images brighter
than your first Petals' blossoming,
and I outnumber you and all
those you Pads can ever bring."

summer noon

Beyond the grey-moated city,
cows feed on peasants' taxed grass;

pigs sit in brown pools, seeking trough,
anxious to gorge themselves in sow.

They search for a sweet banquet
and settle for the tomato-sour flesh.

Near a sickly farmhouse overlooking
the high-rise highway to the city,

I lie under an ancient windmill,
that whirls like years passing above.

At noon, the wool sun burns, paws at me,
as dogs bark after sheep on a quiet hill.

Oh, to leave the trough and the mud,
and feast on the sweet bead of the mill!

No shade from the windmill,
I watch autos head eastward 70.