Summer poetry fest, an ongoing fiesta . . .

Cityscape Sunset

Cityscape sunset
all eeeee's
paper planes silent at the zenith
gliding

Soft gray kiddie kites
floating out to sail;
dark smoky jet streams
weaving for a tail

Pink clouds cuddling lazylike
cotton candy small
huge golden floods light
a blue sky and all

Is this the day
whose shimmering tease
made the Welshman rage at our coming
dying?

Hey, it's too darn hot to write prose in July. . . .

Lancaster PA

In Lancaster PA, a hundred fifty years ago

There stood a house I’ll never live

In which I never hope to know

Upon this well-worn porch of pine and timber forest hitching posts

(a makeshift stage of knotted planks)

The dwelling huddled mid its hosts

Two icons guarding either side its weather beaten east/west walls

The silversmith and town saloon

With brandied wine and flowered halls. . . .

July Poetry Lapse Continued

Sign Language

Poetry is the language of signs:

abbreviated

  

      meaningful

           unintelligible

                  sometimes askew

                          Poets are like midgets in a mirror:

                   small

              sagacious

          absurd                 

as sensitive as me or you  

Sedona Poetry Lapse

Native American

Kiln-baked rocks of the red desert mesmerizing
soul's permanent recall, native flutes unraveling
inside imaginary winds as meditation assures me
there could be no pain of dying at such a shrine.

But a rude moment annihilates sense memory
as cafe musak switches from new age yearnings
to tired old tourist beats and Credence Clearwater Revival,
wrapped in the smell of wet, undercooked fries and BLT down,
hold the myths.