A Journey Of Dreams

Yellow seasons, red clouds,

drinkable dawns—

we certainly indulged.

Then an orchestra,

sprawling, treacherous, lavish, 

with wilding percussion,

rainy brass, nervous strings,

chatty woodwinds.

A growing dissonance of voices

on top of the deep roar of traffic

and sirens, a scream for help,

then the crash of cymbals, bossy and jagged, 

tumbling down concrete stairwells, 

cut through all things fearful,

then quiet but for the breezes sighing

through the barb’ wire fences

and over the range grasses.

The road is elusive.

Always was.

Search for it where it is not.

From: Small Places, Big Places Everywhere

Unpub. MS p. 38

How Is Where About The Blue Round

 The child within the child within— 

I have questions:

How is the sky?

How is an egg?

How is an egg a sky?

What is the eye roundabout?

But...how is round?

Just round?

Or is the eye a round sky?

Or a blue egg?

Or a planet?

Where is the all get around?

Round, round get around like that.

Rabbits and quail especially get around.

How is especially?

Does it run and leap great distances?

Walk on muddy paths in bare feet?

Is a yawn an especially?

Or a speciality?

You mean like Javelinas and Coyotes?

How is madness?

When I saw you for the first time,

reason went mad.

Where would reason go?

When are the mountains invisible?

How does faith go to cry?

What is the how of a horseless horse.

Who is a roundabout 

stuck with the we of God.

From: A Preface To The Universe:

Women, Getting Older, and Other Mysteries

Unpub. MS p. 2