A Myth of Symmetry In Vine

A garden of toys was planted before the inconstant heat of May
alive and sprouting quickly in the deep burnt soil
It was tended and neglected benign growth of mere edibles
now she gives it all away, hollow

A gourd-song from patched painted blueness
her private dance corn-bead down a row
strung past the endgame gone doggishly damp
empty, this inconstant symmetry of vine


Crooked neck and glory morning yellow
yeasty spray of tomato red as mad rose
wrapping the house in ropes of melon that
suspend, soft across the screen door we hang

This inconstant exit from her tangled fecundity




(a challenge of three poems with the word Inconstant)

A Comment In Passing

Writing and loving the beauty of a fragile tale
this old story of love in precarious balance
Imagine the scarlet lichen mist drenched rock and bare
the hunger of un-lived afternoons
made clean by touch
the wind and holy shiver
a shade of anticipation
when appreciation merges with surge
tidal upwelling salty and raw



Images by Micah Bochart 8/09 from a morning's hike above our valley home

March 17th, 1963

All from the capital city would come by to confer with the Irishman, the dark one who led their imaginations toward a better St. Paddy Day's parade.
I was set atop the bartop, black hair and sallow skin. He gave me the sparkle of Irish mischief in my saddle shoes and eyes. Poppa had handed me a leprechaun's white clay pipe, the stem so thin and elegant I could only imagine someone as clever as he using it.

I have it still. I use it now to help weave a different story. But tonight my eyes keep closing mid sentence, only to jerk awake with moisture threatening to slip down my chin. The fire's so cozy. And the miles spent to get here have me mellowed.
Perhaps tomorrow...

Petal Visions Bricolage

Jazz Man Do!

A flood spray of honey dream

our coolest frantic summer play

rose two so delicately together

pink pole goddess read my mad black moon egg

I felt it incubate behind a delirious whispered scream



Winter produced vision at your will

my feet are now shaking me about

producing a forest lather... drunk as sweat

pounding a thousand elaborate wants

blood petals drip their sweet chocolate eternity