Just near my childhood home
used to be a19th century farmhouse
but all that was left
was blackened cinder blocks
of an apparent fire
and the apple tree beside them.
Field grasses and wildflowers
overran the foundation
and it was where I could sit
out of sight and lost in time,
spellbound by summer,
while on the grass tips,
the house of the sun
floated like an apparition
scented by the burning past.

Whoever created this art
Must have sensed the zeitgeist
Its imperfections are stunning
The more you look at it
The more flaws appear
And the more it appeals
To our distorted ideals
And submissive aesthetics
Tethered to culture
Whenever I see it
I’m reminded how near
We have remained
To our own failings
Our sublime dereliction
Impoverishing poverty
Denying earth’s dying
Praising the monstrous
Believing in art and in others

“Poetry heals the wounds inflicted by reason.” Novalis

“Somewhere in the world,”
my poet friend liked to say,
“there’s a stone that wants to fly,”
and I want to believe
there’s a stone that wants to fly,
maybe some magic stone
that doesn’t know it’s falling,
or like the Rosetta Stone
that doesn’t know its speaking,
or beach stones skipping waves,
arrowheads lean with hunger,
David’s stone and malachite,
moonstones to fly by night,
pumice clouds in the sky,
all stones that want to fly.
It could also be any stone
you happen to pick up
and weigh against life,
tell me it’s not flying
and I’ll know you’re a liar.

The sky wears monks’ robes
and walks with bowed head
but you can’t tell if it’s faith
or melancholy that pervades.
Thunderstorms as expected.
Days wear shaded garments.
Deep night follows deep light.
Raindrops drip from leaves
like birdsong turned to stone.
Even a butterfly struggles
to lift the light, flower to flower.