Dragon-fly

Warm winds flood
this darkening Georgia sky -
lightning flashing!

The elegant dragon-fly
hovers over
my dark window.

Poised on thin pane
looking my way,
it's drawn into my storm.

Driving at Night

Driving to Napa down highway 12,
winding up Jamison Canyon Road
under the night sky alive with light

we see the full moon
shine on lingering cattle,
still grazing in quick-silver shadows
through darkly rising pastures,

and as we glide past dark cliff and ranch,
a new brightness gathers
like a busy, hovering helicopter,
or an airplane
searching for its landing strip;

but never moving,
far too constant to be human,
this bright planet rivals
even the rollicking moon,

this Venus,
mad lover
of the philandering sun,
guides us on
to Napa.

Unripe Apples Fall

Unripe apples fall

and lie wasting on the ground,

spots spreading into brown,

circles, decaying, waiting

for sun and time to gently take

seminal seeds into the warm earth.

Small birds fall

down low

from their high, swaying tree,

to where patient

fallen apples

melt and glow.

Two looming hawks rise

waiting for the time to be right,

to turn their dark wings

and with swift silent stroke

give feathered death

to these surprised souls,

casting them like seeds

into dark soil.

Limited Vision

I can see 

through the far 

arched window 

nodding leaves 

and bright limbs 

rising over my 

popsicle-stick 

fence. 

I can see 

shimmering, 

blue heat 

rising like oil 

thrust high into 

the empty 

glimmering sky; 

But from this comfortable, dark room, 

confined by dimly glowing walls, 

soft light melting 

through heavy drapes, 

I cannot see 

the whole picture: 

The insect 

trembling on the vine; 

the hungry finch darting, 

or the hawk, 

rising on invisible gyre, 

soaring beyond 

my limited vision.

photo Copyright (c),© 2003-2007 by Soleil Lapierre

Hunter Hill

Above Columbus Parkway
it rises to the east,
creased with oak
and dry grass,
grazing cattle, bored,
loitering horses,
and the gliding hawk hunting
in the rough granite
and withered timber.

But hidden by high, jagged peaks,
the mute Miwok headman observes
the cattle and the hawk,
and the swift automobile
hissing
down the smooth, black road
below
Hunter Hill.

Author's Note:
the Miwok were the indigenous people of the nothern part of the San Francisco Bay Area. They were nearly wiped out in the 19th century by diseases (mainly small pox) brought by the European settlers. Miwok descendents still live in this area, though.


My Miwok would be a ghost.
(image of "Miwok Headman" from http://www.firstpeople.us/)