Origami Moon

There is no such thing
as an origami moon;
some things can’t be made out of paper,

You can carve a planet
out of an apple,  or extrude
plastic roses to your heart’s content,

But it’s evident, and I’m sure I’m right,
the best you can hope for from a man-made moon
is the promise of artificial light.


Applying Foundation

O praise the alchemy that doesn’t age;
only apples, golden if you please, can meet
that test (and those great mythological beasts,
but they
don’t look in mirrors anyway.)

No need to blame it on the moon
nor the constant greed for shining sun,
but I suspect it has a hand. Heed the tides –
(their rise and fall with many a sigh-)
or there will be no fish to fry.

Ruin the master, you ruin the house.
Sure, it is a natural rage, this suit in need
of pressing; thoughts turn on their own towards will,
to the undertaking
of both loss and making.

Still, while there is breath
time should not be wasted on  mourning prematurely. 
Proverbial the hope that sees creases as a proof of smiles,
and signs of gravity (the latest style)
no more than Einstein’s theory.

After a Quick Glance Overlooked the ‘th’

O, Tolkien, did you think
  of middle ear and all that happens
there?  The trysts between the malleus,
incus, stapes and the brain, the ring –
You know the one that drives a man
insane,  a trilogy of senses intertwined.

What do you know 
   of the Eustachian tube?
Will you map it for us with your worthy pen?
Perhaps invoke a tuning fork
so we will better understand why in February
when snow is on the ground, we hear a robin sing
and join hearts and hands to welcome Spring.

St. Valentine’s Day


I do not write of Ireland, Yeats,
nor do I seek the hidden truths.
No second Troy shall there be,
no new Jerusalems.

We must remember tender songs
less time leave us cold as stone,
dreamless and alone in this haughty stance
of independence.

Warriors all, though without guns,
poets daily shed their blood,
a contribution sure
as any politician’s.

And so, St. Valentine, today
we put our reasoning away and cede
to ancient candles’ flare.
Cupid calls and we are there.

My Father, Clearing Ditchbanks

That scythe synchronized
with the primordial pulse of him;
the movement smooth and sure,
unchanged by rising sun
or noon’s approaching.

It was not a gradual thing
that he built up to.
It began when the scythe
was in his hand; it ended
only when he set it down.

A whispered sound, a swish
unless a drought was on the land
and then a crackle, like wrinkled
paper rattling, but that rhythm
was something you could count on.

Loosely Bound ~ (declaration a posteriori)

From this window
looking out at a string of hills
necklacing the horizon, distant
and untouchable, painted there
by centuries unapproachable.

Separate from them but loosely bound
I open up the door and venture out.
Although the wagon wobbles from its miles
I have become one with those hills,
an extension of the limbs of oak and ash;

more than a reflection on the pond,
I am the water rippled