Mugho Pine

      Oz and i
walked by
   the dying
mugho pine

      i stopped
      to shoot a
trapped his leash
   under my feet

as if i had a right.
   no choices left,
      he waited, 
impatient as
such a small
   dog can be,
perhaps a bit

   i liked the
   leaf colours,
not the meaning.
the pine had
   a problem

so unlike Oz
(and me)
   we were so
happy, on our
perfect walk.

      (for him, 
always an

Red, red, red

i met a man who
   could not see
      any colour.

   though i love
      to see colour,
i didn't pity;

   the man with
      no colour
was good as any.

he lived his way,
      making this 
   world his own.

he wasn't disabled
      in any way. 

      nobody knows 
what other senses
he may have had.

      he wasn't talking
about such things.

      perhaps there is
no way to speak of
   unshared visions.

we all walk alone.

Caribbean Rain

Caribbean Rain

last time was exotic
tile roofs waiting
in early morning rain.

maybe it was here
we saw pelicans,
marine iguanas,

rain, tropical rain.

looking through
glass, we see a
certain welcome

a welcome
of a certain kind.
rains taper off.

rain, tropical rain

peaceful warm rain 
does not alarm
in any way

instead, it soothes.
(been wet before
and always dried)

Leaves and Grass

Leaves and Grass

      today is 
   a new thing
warmer than 
      i thought
it would be.
   brighter, no rain
fireworks celebrate
something i forget.

we look for rain
      when we are 
   so parched
   as this our 
tired earth,

   a fallen leaf  
      in grass,
an old friend 
(we loved) 
      who now
   is fallen, fallen leaf
(unforgotten now)

when we are gone,
   who will take up
   our memories?

   bright stories
      capture all

sadly, light fades
   (it will return)
   and darkness
covers everything.
      we sleep

Black and White Barn

Black and White Barn

      all the colours
      that we need
to tell a story...

all the colours
      that we see 
make white.

   no colours 
      at all
make black.

      darkness is
   like silence
to our eyes.

   a step this way,
the point of view 
   will change.

this becomes that.
      and unreal
   becomes real.

   looking around 
corners: a question 
      of seeing.

any artist should 
   know: seeing is 
      not believing.

but believing
   is a big part
      of creating.

creating may require 
all the beautiful 
   colours that 
      there are.



   this time of year
our world begins
      to chill,

   so we wonder
why we're here
      as light 
   grows dim

and air gets cold
      but not too
   cold to breathe

   today, october,
   start to fade

except for trees
      which go to
   red and golden

   (a million leaves
have lost their green
      and changed)

   this time, this
      change (is a 
beautiful thing)

it decorates our 
   cooling world 
and cheers us
      once again.

Blackened Barn

Blackened Barn

      roasting in 
   hot sunshine, 
hundreds of years,

it can't share 
      its stories
the laughter 
   and the tears,

beautiful wood
colours, burned
      to black,

   no reason to
      stand tall,
no purpose
   any more...

      the old black
buildings lean,
   falling slowly,

      to dust

      any nails
   that may 
   be found
turn slowly 
      into rust.

   still something
there appeals to us.
      hope that
things went well,

sometimes, there
might be stories
   but no-one's 
      left to tell.