Passive Architect

Sailboat

Feeling the boat

Turn and woo

Small corrections were all it took

To keep the sails tufted

The tassels swinging

Sails lifting

And the wind pulling us further and further

From shore.

A Spell to Fall Asleep

I step on a dream –

The poof of genies,

Sparkles and powder,

Midnight turns India

Turret colors as dizzying as a carousel.

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Magic carpet, wind in the face,

Fun like bouncing in blow-up castles,

Riding horseback over Ireland,

Long-flowing chestnut hair falls in billows.

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Mushroom steps sound hollow,

The elves play a tapping tune,

Someone in the shade slides a lullaby guitar

Lightly like a harp winding down.

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The eyes close and bring one to foreign memories,

Candy cane swirls, the trumpet sounds,

And morning has all-of-a-sudden awoken.

Woodstock, New Hampshire

Behind our inn there are cascades

For shallow swimming and sliding.

The smooth bottom races

below your swimming feet

green algae slippery teenagers

and adults are racing back

through a pine-needled forest

–a soft carpet landing.

As the rock-slide river

delivers to shallow waters

the stream without you

we race to slide, swim again.

New Hampshire’s Streams

Sliding in the pools

Feet gripping a slimy bottom

Just to upright yourself

Before the crashing waves

Of a tumbling stream

Slow down into a swirling pool of peace.

The Lost River

Drip drop druid forest,

Thick white batons lay on the floor,

Knick knock in the rock,

Let’s find a face.

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We crawled on our bellies,

Knelt before the sea alter,

Shimmied along rock crags,

–Muddy and melting between the glacier ice

That carved smooth pot-holes.

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Lemon squeezing grandpas,

The echos filled with children’s laughter,

Climbs against boulders at your back,

Angled ladders,

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Small streams and colorful rocks crossed our pathway.

Around beaver brook’s base,

The water’s girth, a loud noise,

An incredible orchestra,

An entire journey upward,

Rock, jaded, studded waterfall,

A mountain high of meandering,

On a large rock face, over which trees had grown

Their roots had branched

And patrons had worn

Places for us to step and fall.

Wheeling and Ohio

In these western foothills

Appalachia trembles,

Tiny bombs detonated,

Shaking the river for oil.

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Small orange bags filled with

Radio signals, computer equipment

Driven down by communication cords

Hang loose from helicopters wings above to the gas

Miles below our surface-land.

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Tearing through the mountains,

Toppling the ancient rock,

Shaking the pockets below to the

Pockets walking the street

–Gold coins are spilling.

Into the cracked waters,

Returning,

To pay off the liquid we’re pulling

To provide everyone on earth above

Good living.

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Why don’t we just crawl down into the caves

To drink the liquid directly?