THREE FACES OF ANN

Ann is looking at herself
fogged in a master of disguise
hiding from her broken past
DEPRESSED

beneath the cracks in the mirror
glamoured by nighttime makeup
her eyes emerge within the paint
SEDUCTIVE

looking without cuckoo illusions
cleared of yesterday dreams
Ann sees beyond the mirror
SERENE

BURMA SHAVE

somewhere South of Seattle
four deaf old poets
cruise down highway 99
in their rusted '52 Mercury
searching for new words
god and Charlie Darwin

off the beaten track towards the beatnik path
they eject their unwanted poems
against the smashed dashboard
hearing nothing but rejections
broken by monotony
seeing nothing but the signs along the way

SPECIAL SEATS

RESERVED IN HELL

FOR WHISKERED POETS

WHO SCRATCH

THEIR LADIES

BURMA-SHAVE


.....an explanation for you youngsters under 55....back in the 40s and 50s driving down the 2 lane highways across America...there were signs at different points spaced approx 100 ft apart advertising a shaving cream.....BURMA-SHAVE

CITY LIGHTS

her world was a black hole of emptiness
a hollow home where the sun never shines
raining dust between the storms
where fingertips search beyond despair
and walk towards a new neighborhood
searching for City Lights

she wondered why she was still alive
in a world of forgotten nothingness
pouring darkness from the storm
unable to see the path to remember
and read her unspoken words
to the dead poets at City Lights

uncomfortable with midnight at high noon
she discarded old thoughts and decided to leave
finding the door that was unlocked
she discovered the truth about herself
and walked with her dark poems
to read at City Lights

HUNGER PAINS

Walking on the hungry sidewalk, I met a homeless lady who
took me to her shelter. The shelter had nothing, just
two wet tarpaulins. She invited me to stay and sleep, though
I hadn't had a meal in a week.

"When we awake we shall find food," she muttered, and stroked
my beard to comfort me.

I dreamt of chickens roasting, grease dripping like gravy
from their beaks. There was a hole in my stomach when I awoke,
in which I could see the emptiness.


chickens munching
on grain - hungry
beaks side by side

AT THE CREEK

by her creek of solitude the ravens are calling
and over the smooth rocks water is falling
flowing from the mountains where moss and sedge
caress with softness the roots and ledge
beneath branches of cedar and birch bower
shine the light towards the forest flower
more quiet than dreams and softer than ringing
the birds with their zen notes are singing

the high-voiced chickadees feeding at day time
they whistle summer songs of winter-time
when the raven's shadow lurks and branches hurtle
the chickadees fly for cover under branches of myrtle
when rain and rays of sun grow together
they sing with Buddha not to worry about weather
and below the rainbow of feathers unfolden
there is yellow and green like golden

she sits by the creek remembering childhood
listening to the sounds and colors of the wildwood
holding the silence of youth without fashion
words of the beats mixed with heartbeats of passion
rock and blues strung together with laughter
like the chickadees above in the forest rafter
far from the city and that black alley
here in the moment above the mountain valley
not caring or being sore of any losses
sitting at the creek staring at the mosses


credit photo Wayne Pitchko

SUPERMARKET ART

he was strolling down aisle four
a solitary street towards frozen foods
fatigued by plenty of breathing
and too much Kerouac
searching for his canned whore

walking all day without shopping
a death march of overstocked shelves
rushed by the deadline of failure
and too many uppers
running towards more pill popping

he stopped at the congregation of boredom
a self-conscious row of soup cans
touched by visions of pop art
and to many Camel cigs
Andy Warhol silk screened some

DEAD LOVER

I started out as a fallen seed
some offspring of a mature cedar
growing up next to a pine
stranded beside the creek
like two parallel soldiers standing guard

seizing the warmth of the sun
never talking
sometimes whispering in the breeze
we grew together
branch by branch we started holding hands

as the years went by we became closer
entangled in each others branches
we fed our friendly woodpeckers
shared our space with a squirrel family
listened to the advice of the raven

surviving another forest fire
thinking we would die together
cuddled in each others arms
always saluting the sky
life started to change

being attacked by the pine beetles
Jack started to change color
green..yellow..rusty red
turning blue with grey spot
slowly I watched him die
in my arms