Building the Doozer Adobe Dome

Ground has been broken.
It is coming along with callused hands,
bloody knuckles, slimy elbows
and the shoulders
of Atlas.
                                                                Making progress?
Making is a process,
even when done
this way before-
there is a rhythm
in the rhyme.
                                                                To each his own to find.
The ones near the top
are fools gold
bodies that steal the sun.
                                                                You'll need to dig deeper.
When it all caves in
you can hear a faint echo
where labor lost love.
And as you go down,
ear to the earth, grumbles;
but from above, glistening.
Erecting glass towers,
prisms with poise,
                                                                one stone away
                                                                from crystallography.
Yes, we may get buried
                                                                over.
Yet, we must continue
on schedule,
with slotted setbacks
                                                                spaced out.
Rock.              Water.                Bone.
Not to worry,
it all comes out right
when done.
Once all fine points                                 (grains)
                                                                              are settled,
resistance quelled,
the dirt goes back
right
where it flows
best,
                                                                 in order
to rest in peace,
on this sight                                              we will make
it
on
Time.





Image By Yoav Dothan (Own work) [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Ritually Custom

'Tis a sensuous tribute to Time

that we caress the Moment,

knowing it curves and gestures

that sink into warm familiar coves,

sucking in all its nectar

as newly brewed.

Again, more, and a gain!

Let us do the steps-

in orderly,

walk with me, mirroring see,

strut through it

then and again

like it is your old house.

Right now, 

exactly like it was

when you remembered what

you came here for.

Tho never was it

the same, all most

re-placed.

Like last Time

bittersweet lingers not long 

enough.

Like seasons and seconds,

more tradition and Time

to do the same.

Plump predictions and ripe fruitions

bursting with Now

smelling like Then

we recognize This

time

as the Rite Time

to harvest

a gain.

Image By Mennonite Church USA Archives (1975 St Catherines Tradition Poster) [No restrictions], via Wikimedia Commons.

Solstice(s)

If the day feels short-

it is because

I skimmed some

off the top

for myself alone-

greedily, while nobody notices

what was never there

to miss.

When the hours stretch

their elastic arms

into

for ever-

ask for seconds

while time

is free.

Image by By Matzei, Winter Solstice 12/2011 (Own work) [CC0], via Wikimedia Commons.

The Devil in the Details-From Notes Taken (Haiku)

the moon set on an
idea, and the wind blew
off the words: (List-in).
















Image by By Galileo moon phases [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

a Peace of Christmas morning

Christmas morning,
nearing six,
the moon just retired.
Curled on the corner of the couch,
under the copper lamp light,
books piled on the left arm,
Smokey is nestled on my right,
between outstretched toes,
pads touching mine,
his heavy head propped on my
soul, with a deep sigh,
i am alone
writing
in front of the Christmas tree,
whose moments are numbered-
alee, the chimes try to carol outside
a pine candle cheerfully flickers,
heavy breaths are carried down the hall...
and I remember
how many books I've read this year
and the fathoms I've learned
beyond measure.
I am
more aware-
of myself.
I am getting somewhere-
besides the moral of the story
or simply The End.
I have found peace
and puzzled in pleasure
over moments
with words as pieces,
like these,
gathering beloved dearly
to day.





Image By Lars Jacob for Ristesson [CC BY-SA 3.0 (http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0)], via Wikimedia Commons.

Reading while waiting the world turns the page

The boy, who is 17, is dragging

a rolling backpack and wearing a red beanie

which covers his sensitive ears that purposefully cusp

thick rectangle glasses held by a strap around the back.

It is Friday, before the Winter break at the local highschool.

I was told the school brought snow to the quad-

and it is sunny, 70 degrees and the ocean is silver on the skyline.

It must not be real snow.

The boy, who is not soon to be a man,

wears running pants, is pigeon toed and shuffles on the sidewalk

sideways as fast as he can drag his backpack and hunched frame along.

He is covered in puffy white foam,

his arms, his butt, his back, like he just jumped out

of the bath, but is trying to get out of himself.

Marching off beat, planting crowded feet down the sidewalk, stomping

I hear-faintly-people scream, Zachary, Zachary, come back here! Zack-get back-

She is late, she is late she's LATE! is all he says

Over and over he chants while rocking himself righteous.

The uniformed school guard is now on his walkie, beeping, Over,

while he smiles wide at him, offering him a treat, but he does not bite

into candy from strangers.

Others come running and reprimanding,

fingers drawn, arms cocked.

She's late, she's late, she's never supposed to be this late!

He flings his words at them,

soaps flies like spit.

He is cursing at her in his way.

But how could she know that there was no snow

They lied, he’ll say.

which is why he was early today

but she was probably going to be late anyway. 

Composed 12/19/15.

Image credit By U.S. Air Force photo/Ken Wright/Released [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

My lips are sealed

Because I liked to kiss the boys,
you used to say.
And from what he saw,
that sounds true.
Lack of will power, I say
don't deny when desire strikes.
No, they did not push my button,
or make it near my neck.
And it wouldn't matter who
happened to be throwing their meat
at me, pelvis, chest, seeking breasts.
Hot syrup breath and drizzling skin,
I'd be right there,
half naked myself, ripe peachy skin
swollen lips and wild half
closed black eyes, my body swinging
to feel itself touch outside.

This is how I know hypnotists are real,
and trances, a quarter a twenty due
to inflation, like the facts, you see.
Those musicians that are reckless
with their radio rape and power
over women, tossing bass under lusty lines
that speak to somewhere primitive.
Women respond in a certain throbbing way
under disco lights cast in dank dungeons.
A charmer and his pungi,
the venom has been imbibed.

Because I like to kiss the boys, he said
which may be true but sounds like conceit
when I profess it was they who kissed me
first. But he wouldn't dance
(too left deceit)
so he could never completely see
if I kissed them back
and I wish
I never did.





Image By UPI (eBay) [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons, Rock Hudson & Julie Andrews 1968 film, Darling Lily.