Visiting Crystal Creek

Not far out of town, the rainforest still edges roads and covers hills.   

I pull over, close my eyes, meditate ... falling leaves hit my car, thump.

#American Sentences (a 17-syllable alternative to haiku, devised by Allen Ginsberg.)

Letting the Garden Go

 I have let my garden beds go to weeds. Interesting that the weeds they grow are different. One is full of spreading ferns, and bushy plants with wide, glossy leaves. The other is occupied by low ground cover with tiny leaves, from which the aloe vera plant — not a weed — stands up tall and spiky.

A Dangling Leaf

A dangling leaf begins to turn on its stem: imperceptible breeze. 

Netting the moon

I look up at the full moon through a cobweb shining from roof to tree.

Winter Flowers

The winter flowers on the vine are orange, the colour of both trauma and joy (in Colour Healing). There are few left as winter ends. It has been a winter of trauma and joy, reliving the last, when Andrew began his dying, finally making his transition at the beginning of Spring. I pull a Tarot card from the Wildwood deck. The fire in the centre has bright orange flames. The card is called Abundance, meaning reward after long struggle.

August Wind

August wind.

Each year I forget

until it begins.

A sudden flurry.

'Is that rain?' I think,

but it's not. It's the air 

stirring, no longer inert.

It wakes with a rush —

excitement or dread? —

and the blood responds.

Submitted for Poets United's Verse First ~ Difficulty. The challenge is: Write a poem, no more than three stanzas, that is completely free of "gratuitous, show-offy, camouflaging" text. 

She Seems Unaware

She seems unaware of the bleeding, but

at times her eyes glaze; I think

she's moving away, starting

not to be here.

Further details