Ruins and Palms

ruins and palms
have little value
      in my daily life.

   in my memories 
they are magical.

stories of ruins,
      of the things
   that happened 
there and there,

well I know that 
      i ought to say:

      very special 
   about the stories 
i don't want to hear.

like the palms,
   they are not
related to my
  own stories,

or my life.

   they have a very
different mesage,
      maybe, while i
might have none.

my own stories or my life

nothing important,
because i must be
about as important
   as an ant in a hill.

   would i like to be
more important?

      what kind of 
comes with that?

maybe to be an ant 
      is enough.

   and what about
   the palm and its

   and the wall?

Spring Seawall

drifting along
a beautiful
seawall on
an island,

they have
no agenda,
nor purpose.

on a day 
like this.

quarried stone
holds back waves,

waves breaking
on hard stone.

make no mistake;
any rock weathers
on these edges.

some last longer
than others. 
these stones last 
longer than we do.

for us the people 
are always the story.

and here, the story 
is that the people
do not seem so 
very important.

not much going on,
no real dramas
are unfolding.

the drama here
is all unseen,
and unseeable,
or maybe 
the drama is
the landscape.

Grand Canal

that morning the 
north end of 
the adriatic sea,

looked like a
scene from a 
monster movie, 
after the crowd 
ran away.

venice started 
out that way, 
a barbarian army 
at the edge 
of a swamp. 

nothing much 
has changed

an awful mist 
hung over
the grand canal,

as we looked 
toward a modern 
art museum.

maybe it excited
her to support men
who might some 
day be known 
as greats.

you never know.

a carpenter 
might become 
a fisherman;

a slave might 
become a 
famous sculptor,
a plowman, a poet.

and we had faith
that sunshine
would come back.

Coldstream Creekside

somewhere near,
a road-building
project destroyed

a historic wonder,
i made a photograph:
a very old log house.

sunburned from
probably a century
of summer sun.

logs turned rich
brown and black,

cracks filled with 
old white plaster.
whitewash, maybe.

i don't know the 
stories i can't see.

i can always
believe nonsense;
it's a very human 
thing to do.

the creek flowed
silently past the
old log house.

maybe it was
drinking water,
though today it
looks murky,
a bit dangerous.

old stories are
impossible to
prove, a bit murky,

digging for
truth a little quirky

we turn over stones,
looking to see clues
to untold stories,
stories we can't see.

Ancient Doorways

through those
ancient doorways

ancestral feet 
wandered in 
through those 
doors, and out.

masons built
such solid walls,

brick and mortar
last so long.

nothing is
forever, it is said.

two thousand years
those bricks 
held strong;

there's little
left of the old town;
the doorways now
are falling down.

through those
ancient doorways

ancestral feet 
wandered in 
through those 
doors, and out.

Black Widow Spider

   she's such a 

  waiting quietly
  for something
foolish enough

      to wander
close enough.

      she will
pounce and
sink fangs in
deep enough

to inject her

two workmen
   watched me
her image,

to make this 

from what they
   considered a
safe distance.

her bite might 
   not be fatal
for someone
      my size.

it might make
   me very sorry.

   and sorrier,
      her mate,
who i am not,
may be killed
      and eaten.

   i am not him,
   and keep my
safe distance.

      she is so
beautiful in
   her hunger,

      almost a

      with such

   she is amazing, 
a thing of wonder.

Hydrangea Bouquet

springtime, in the
floral department,
looks like this.

many times, in a
long cold winter,
we craved warmth,

wanting what we
did not have.

maybe it's always
springtime, in the
floral department,

i wouldn't know.

there are things
that i don't need
to see or 
hear or say..

but i fear that i am 
no wise monkey,

and see so much
that makes me sad. 

springtime, in the
floral department,
looks like this.

City on a Rock

   they hang on,
      looking out
at the same view 

   so much doesn't
ever change much.

      we rest on our
better judgement
it's never enough.

   we love to see,
from an early age,

   it's so important,
for so many of us.

      scenery can help
our pointless days,

      allowing for an
accurate weather

a sense of true
      foresight and
a source of mildly 

   as we watch
   the weather
blow our way.

Looking Up

Looking Up

beside the hill,
i begin to
my importance
in the scheme 
of things.

if i were to think
about my time
and the scale
of time these hills

i'd have to be 
impressed by my
time as much as
by my stature.

how important 
i am not!

i think and 
words come out, 
not always exactly

it can be a struggle.

layers of sand, 
turned to stone, 
containing all 
the stories 
of so many ages.

i seee it all, 
i am amazed.

humbling, but
i am not humiliated.
loving the chaotic beauty
of this wild place!

Vivid Sky

Vivid Sky

why do i think it's
the edge of night?

      just before 
   the darkness
smothers colour

then darkness 
sticky eyelids
   stick shut
until morning.

why do i think it's
the edge of night?

      why not:
the edge of day?

or something

      maybe we
should consider 
and midnight.

      but nothing 
seems unusual 
   about either.

   maybe we can 
forget middles 
      and edges 
   and make it 
all about the sky.

in the clouds!