Wolfen Hungry

What lurks the dark and silent world
and wanders over hills? 

What blows across the empty space
and wanders in the mist
from east to west in tireless drift
to haunt the rising moon? 

What stealth and shadow prowl the rifts
among the splintered sage? 

What walking hunger howls insatious across
the rocks in penetrating cry
to primal craving swells of burning skies
in surging floods of heinous flow 

And lingers in the doom of night
concealed in wisps of gray 

When thunder shaking cloudbursts quake
the roots of feral wild
devouring springtime’s fledging growth
and vernal saplings bloom 

Skin walkers hunger gorges the night
immersed in raven blood!

The Leaves of Autumn

The leaves of the tree spread their shadow
            and cast black upon the whole:
they plunge deep the heart of the garden
            into the cradle of soul.

Now a wind blows harsh in its coming
            withering fruit of the vine:
choking the air, the water, the light,
            in dying shadows entwine.

Yet coming, the warm seed of promise,
            faith and belief born of sun:
of leaves wrapped in light in the garden
            and trees of flame just begun.

Garden of Doves

In the garden of doves
the birds are the trees,
and the breath on the wind
becomes flowers and bees.

There the moist bends of clover
are the soft footsteps of dew,
and the mist of the morning
becomes sky afternoon blue.

I saw it in a vision
where sleep becomes dreams:
in the flow of the moment
where thoughts become streams.

Springtime

Of impatiens and hair paisleys singing
To the flutter of butterflies’ brand new
Like a million sunshine streams come clinging
To moss swollen in the heather of blue

Of springtime made robins newborn breathing
In soft whispers to the opening bloom 
In the light of the morning bequeathing
The scent of sweet orange blossom perfume

Held tight in the oak boughs by breath blowing
Over the fields of verdure clover green
Afloat in the streams of winsome flowing
Of wild-wood bees humming hallowed serene

Come on the day of a springtime waking
In orchid quivers of soft purple hue
The song of bluebird harmony making
Honey bees and trees and blossoms anew

And the flowers and trees and things humming
In purple and blue the joy of it shows
Warm in the know of the season coming
In thought and song and the feeling that glows

Bluebird Windows
     in trochaic hexameter

Rapping outside my mind’s window, raven I thought,
but a bluebird had come tapping windows of dreams,
dreams of forward waking backward, asking answers,
leaving questions, yesterday tomorrow tonight. 

“I’m here,” sang she, “open windows dreaming to make,
“wake up sleeping, wake up dreaming window wake up,
inside making outside coming inside begin
with this Monday dream on Sunday, taking tonight.”

So through bluebird opened windows dreaming I went
where the blackbirds and canaries whisper secrets
to the swans of moving windows gliding slowly
in the soft drone of a bluebird humming her song.

Out through bluebird windows, in through murmuring dreams
Sunday swans’ come Monday, bluebirds’ singing her song.