The Apple of Your Eye

The apple of your eye
your pupil grows
taking me in
yet I see myself
like a tiny puppet
reflected for me
only to see
and you call me
the apple of your eye
I hope precious
to you
and for only me
the puppet
to see.

Eyes That Listen

As you stare at a star
if that star is still a star
then as long as you stare
you have made a connection
as connecting as two tin-cans
connected by kite twine
yet your mind fills with wonder
with visible and invisible
messages from that star
perhaps those feelings
of awe
are not coming from within
but from without
from that other end
of that string of light
the whole universe beaming
messages of awe
to any eye
that will listen.

The Moth and the Mapmaker

The moth was pierced
by a pin
with a tiny label
pierced too
together
beneath glass
with frequent stares
eyes attracted
by wings that seemed
to be designed
by a mapmaker
of old
for ship captains
that sailed
beneath star filled skies
to guide their sails
to unknown lands
that were carefully draw
over countless years
on the wings
of moths
now
under
glass.

Meditating upon forever change

Sometimes deep into the night
deep into the desert
with but the canopy of stars above
a meandering breeze
that comes and goes as it pleases
a kind of darkness below
the circular horizon that stuns the eyes
tiny sounds about
some familiar
some strangers
and seated atop gritty sand
with still warmth
from the long departed sun
new smells tickle the nose
the body slowly finds an ease
seems held upright
by that breeze
the mind
oh the mind
wants to take it all in
as the senses grow bolder
and bolder
what was once ordinary
becomes extraordinary
the mind lets go
the voice in the head is dumbstruck
what was thought to be stillness
suddenly becomes forever change
in the blink of a blind eye
the entire universe
slips
into that silent mind.

When All is Quiet

When all is quiet
perhaps the silence
you hear
is the sound of atoms
within and without
you
the sun
the avocado tree
the aluminum and plastic lawn chair
the glass of iced tea
the clouds
all the universe abuzz
in invisible motion
electrons whirling
around protons
silently
making their music
everywhere.

Starry Night

A sigh
in the night
breaks the overhead
vision
of things past
that touch my eyes
after so long
a journey
to then dissolve
in a matter
of a blink
in time
to resurrect
in sightless
thoughts
and to live on
in words passed
from me to you
a piece
of a star
made real
by sounds
uttered
in the dark
of night.

A Handful of Words

With a handful of words
I attempt to create
life lived
on this hurling Earth
a dot, less than a dot
in a universe so big
that minds like mine
get lost just thinking
such thoughts
yet in the morning dewy grass
two, then three rabbits appear
busy with their break fast
before the sun rises
and air lifts the wings
of hawks
looking for rabbits
that have
called it
a day.

Forgotten Memories

His memories
were stored
and usually forgotten
until some lazy day
when the sun shined warm
and a breeze tickled
the spirit
long forgotten memories
surfaced
to be carefully remembered
and sometimes crafted
decorated and embellished
and placed in a drawer
to be ready for that day
when spirits rose
and ears gathered
to hear his memory
of forgotten days
that never were
but now lived on
with new ears
that forever
will believe
them to be.

Come Forth

He twiddled the idea
in his head
to weave thoughts
imagined patterns
he said
of threads
woven like ancient
Persian carpets
designed for keen eyes
to reveal
a tapestry of stories
and tales
too convoluted
to tell
so they stayed
inside
his head
until his fingers
could not resist
to tell tales
that were too
convoluted
for twisted tongues
to tell.

Summer Time

Was it a peach tree
or was it plum
the card table 
four folding chairs
all set up
and four plates
with chicken
mashed potatoes
a heap of yellow corn
four glasses of milk
four cousins 
at that age
when the adults
sat inside
around a big table
and talked about 
all the things
that the children
seated at the card table
cared not
for they were content
in the shade of the tree
on that hot summer day
in July of nineteen
fifty two
to just giggle 
while eating drumsticks
with 
their hands.

A Useful Fiction

I open my eyes
to a useful fiction
of solid chairs and tables
of boulders too
that build mountains
of grains of sand
flowers and trees
a gathering of matter
arranged just so
that my mind
can construct
a reality
that even
you and I
believe
to be.