The Third of July

Pursuing happiness
I move to the back yard
and in the shade of my umbrella
in the soft, warm breeze,
I sit very still
and hear
the mockingbird call.



I see his tail-feathers
thrust skyward,
waving in avian semaphore,
enticing his mate
to love in the swaying tree,

while stretched on the fragrant grass,
alert ears pointed skyward,
my cat hears everything
and,finding happiness,
closes her eyes.

Simon and Garfunkel, 1969

Their music

still holds me.

two voices

swelling in the night

driving out the silence

with the sound

of sweet life.

Horror filled our lives then,

war was all around

and the very best  among us

all were

shot down -

But we never lost hope

so long as we could hear

their music ringing clearly

as the darkness gathered near.

Hummingbirds

Image: “Anna’s Hummingbird” by James Audubon

hummingbirds dance

falling and rising

high to the top

of the apple tree,

to where I cannot reach.

and fell the crane

painting, September 2001 by Hung Liu

rising high

godlike I gazed

from where the crane flies

unconcerned, over
the placid waters of

the harbor of

the world,

when, driven to madness

it pierced

my throat.

I burst

and burned

and to earth

fell,

and fell

too

the crane.

day's heat

The day’s heat

enfolds me,

green and gold-

en lightly-slipping

rays pour through thin

separations

in my rough-hewn

fence,

and make crosses

bright in

the grass;

but the fog broods,

rising white

as death.

tonight

will be

cold.

reconciled

a bird peers down from

my neighbor’s roof, waiting for

my silence to fall.

where there were five trees

are now three; survivors morn,

buzz-saw’s anger quenched.

softly clear water

falls; brown to green rising, coaxed

into life again.

Wooden Valley Vintage

swollen grapes

extracted flame

fresh blood shed

sweet fruit entombed

stacked casks

fragrant gloom.

Lazy

Sweet summer breeze 

heavy ripe vines

wine pouring, 

time slowly

seaward

flowing. 

I write 

like there's 

nothing left 

in my half-

empty glass.

but now the wine's gone....

day's too warm 

and much too 

long.

A Moment

She starts and stares
into high ceiling shadows,
alarmed by what? A sound?
Slight movement, breeze wafting
past the open door?

I look,
but poor human eyes see nothing
beyond smudged spectacles.

So I stroke her flowing fur
And reassured, she shuts sentient eyes,
trusting feline sense, and purrs.

sometimes it hurts too much

sometimes it hurts too much,

strangling tears,

struggling breath

slowly steals

stealthy death.

did the merciful needle hurt you much?

when sleep filled your eyes,

and your thick blood ceased,

from the red pain you were

suddenly released!

but grey dull memory

remains

for me.