Tacoma

a mountain unforeseen
observed but not believed
obscene he sits so high
as god of summer sky

Avian Perfection

what perfect flight is this?
rising overhead
across from setting sun,
white but lit with gold

Letter to the Sky

You've been busy, clouds.
I had a taste in England, Holland,
Read about it in Switzerland,
rivers made infamous for
overflowing,
banks submerged in low countries.
Now I return to Deutschland,
finding trees left on banks.

You've made a mess, clouds,
ruined some things in some countries.
I understand you had no choice.
Rivers do as best they can
to drain it.

But the grass is such a sweet green

Roll

The rainy side of the country
slips by, not gleaming in the
overcast afternoon twilight,
English summer chilling,
English rain wetting
gentle hills roll past
like London, who's
heading toward motionless train

'What History Means', or, 'The Troubles of Fame'

ancient grounds
modern crowds.
once just winds,
now all of them
gather gawking round.
heckled from street
& watched by sheep,
they walk the henge around.

but what trace do we leave?

Agrisea

A copse of trees
fleck of forest
is an island
in a farmland sea

Low Countries

sailing seas of grain
oceans of pumped water
held at bay
from lowland fields
where grow each season's grains

Hunter's Delight

leaves the canvas backdrop
under this monochrome sky
herbivore bites herbivore in Jachtlust
green tangles, white-mottled leaves,
thorns & branches & at all angles

once well-tended flower garden,
now indecipherable, wild in its beauty
fills an empty pond full
and sun turns cloudy to night
on a summer eve at Jachtlust,

then nature blows the door shut.
a rapping sound in windy night,
some stalking will seems to wait.
but one knows in here no fear--
no danger comes within these walls.

On Navigation

let down by
human advances all around,
it's just my feet
that don't drop me

helped by head
they find the way
but timing off?
arrived wrong day?

till doubts made right
must one but wait.

Waffling

A Belgian surprise, low country rise
on either side in cliffs, some high
and river-carver lies between
such landscape here quite unforeseen

Engel

a smeared-reflection angel
smiles vaguely back in the dimness
of dark-tunnels between daylights

Submetro

undercity, wound around,
lies a maze hid underground.
underfoot all undertown,
stand dark walls gray black and brown,
creeping tunnels down down down
longly lying, scarce a sound
but from above that does resound
until the day unburied, found,
exposed to light, known all around.

Warszawa

In the rain-scented wind,
in the girls' eyes and steps,
is something wonderful found.
What in Warsaw could it be?
Not station, skyscraper behind me,
not these steps on which I lunch.
Turning round I cannot see,
but it is here, I know this much.

placeless

like human pigeons
they wander round downtown locales
looking for fallen crumbs.
feeding off of what they find,
always wanting, always need,
but what could help, will ever see?

Undermountain

Undermountain, since our birth
under stone, tons of earth
overhill, till above,
deep underneath is where we love.
in darkened caves with rocken walls,
daylight treads not in such halls.
snug beneath these alpen heights,
we shun the days for longest night

The Mountain Kings

Long since mountain kings have built,
are their towers ground to silt.
Although well made and sturdy built
they sink as sand and river silt.

Tho grand their empires long had stood,
their all 'gainst time could do no good.
Tall and proud those kings had stood,
but mortals were, tho' fair and good.

Now their abodes are high green farms,
ploughshares yet reign, no call to arms.
Atop once-tow'rs rest now farms,
the kings interred in alpine arms.

catch

fishing for trains,
metaphor soothes me.
I 've cast my line,
now see what I can catch.