ending in words that only make sense in context

folks like beans here are, for me, favorites.

those that are honest and sneaky, honestly sneaky,

stealing glances yet giving away emotional alms almost daily.

true boned and solid folks, with big strong heads

and crafting hands,

diving through the trees of various cities to find words

for what should be, because that's the concern.

what should be, to benefit the all.

matt wrote me today to say that all men are brothers,

and that's true, though i'd like to take it a step further

and say the photograph above is a family portrait, with

beans, the bushes, boots, red, two.

here at home

I'm waiting for the feeling of being home,

here on the porch,

with my wagon of worthwhile possessions

animals offer their advice

Yesterday, after the rain, came the animals.

Fish and cardinals, wet raccoons

and ginger cats, toads, canaries, opossums,

brown bears, and black ones, newts,

skinks, turtles, ewes and lambs,

horses, voles, fox, bucks, balboas,

seals, skunks, miniature, standard sized poodles.

Everyone was wet, skirting off drops,

with expressions of absolutely apathy.

I, a handful of calendula, asked for advice.

'animals,' i asked, 'how should this be?'

i didn't even know myself if i was referring to

my life, my actions, this life, other's emotions,

the way to live daily, the way to pray, the

overarching atmosphere, or to what degree

i should recycle, floss, dust, or prostrate in gratitude.

The question put forward, the pavement steaming

from a few hours of rain after three weeks of heat,

I stood expectant of an answer and received a groundhog

who took the bouquet from my fist, rearranged the yellow,

the salmon, the orange, the brown, and replied

'it should be like this' and looking up from the circle of petals

found the panther and the parrot in agreement.

mimosa

she tells me my unsatisfied yearning might not belong rightfully to me.

maybe it's the neighbor, across the creek, shoving twigs and newspaper,

attempting to start the fire, flinging on more gasoline from a small red tank,

cursing and hoping that the flames sustain themselves this time.

I'm breathing in last sunday's silk mimosa tree.

I'm not crossing my fingers, but I am rubbing my own neck,

leaving traces of pink, yellow, green.

I choose this world, thank you

My hands full, I left the fields

with the stem of a four-leaf clover

between my top and bottom teeth.

This is how to carry luck.

Don't fill buckets full,

boxes, pockets, your palms.

Rather, fill your bags with

zucchinis, raspberries, beetles

and birds. Collect leaves and

histories in your turned over hat.

Suck on the delicate branches of fate.

Chew, methodically, expectation, like

bubble gum, with bubble gum.

Open your arms, here, some matter.

Put ideals and ideas in the spaces between

the woven wood of your basket full of pears

nonsense, no

This time, I stay close to what I find standing.

I identify the fireflies, but admire more the cereal.

After the soil, the roots,

intricate strings

pulling through and collecting.

Once upon a year ago or so, I thought of writing candidly about my experiences,

so that those I barely speak to could have a sense of what I'm doing.

The terribly habit of ambiguity is at home in my poetry, and sometimes

I don't even know where these bags of images come from, that show

up on my mind's front porch.

I wrestle my weak descriptions so often, down in the grass,

all of us wet with rain or dew.

The verbs on top, than I am, till an adjective kicks me in the back

of my knee, and the adverbs all snicker.

Nouns crowd me all day long:

cows, cups, fissures and flowers.

So, apologies for the river water I've offered

in lieu of lemonade.

I'll go back to school soon and try to do better.

a question for ya'll

how will i transport my goat cross country?