Begin with a suggestive stone,
turquoise tumbled round
sometime in the years
of storms
that wash the arroyo clean.
Set in silver
with a hidden pin
and clasp,
one stone
for the abdomen—
silver for the rest.
Let eight legs
extend, soft-angled
to catch at
the hem-edge
of your shirt—
even this quick hug
after so long
unexpected in the street
heartbeat to heartbeat
hardly hurts.
Category Archives: Poetry
Casita Melosa
for Mikaela
Rest your head
a moment more—
a daydream
does small harm.
This portico,
warm with curves
and humble
household charms,
offers passage
as you gaze out
past earth
fresh-turned
toward the young
magnolia tree,
shy in shiny leaves,
lone grandiflora
on this palm-lined street.
Shore Up
Keep the tides
contained, sweep
sand the wind brings,
sandbag the garage,
any low opening—
let no ocean
flood our asphalt lane.
This surge
threatens piers, pilings,
pulls lost nets
and sea wrack
from the depths,
a monolith
unearthed overnight—
already everlasting
in the songs
our children chant.
Haiku by Paul Spielman
I am an adult!
I don’t need thorns anymore
to protect my leaves.
New Pool
Snowmelt seep
from granite peaks
into granite cavities—
interior reservoirs fill,
snowmelt seek release.
Circle of sand
newly damp—
an upsurge
from within,
a wellspring
in palmfuls
pure enough
to cup.
Scree fine
as wet flour,
roil in your shallow start—
even a pool
can gently
jump the trail
and flow
flush to the ice-cut edge.
The Downy Rain
The downy rain
so fine
it powders round
too mild to fall
renews the patio
most days
so dull
but now wet-gray, satin
as a young
elephant seal
in from the undertow.
Weave Me a Spell
Weave me a spell
I can pull over my head
when daylight
through the curtains
hurts the hollows
behind my eyes—
a heavy spell,
a force field
I can feel—
I need to feel more
invisible somehow
less dimensional—
not missed
or even noticed
gone asleep.
Cloud Rider
Georgia O’Keeffe clouds
crowd the sky today—
some vast Southwest vista
empty, the god of rain away.
Why winter here Tlaloc?
Where the freeways run
with noise? Whole hillsides
lost to light quakes
or lit cigarettes?
On land scraped clean
before I was born
old freeways
with saint names
the numbers
I know.
Ahead a loose tarp
waves to cars
from a truck bed
flurries of petal hearts!
Drifts of blossom
obstruct lanes—
road and sky
a moment
the same.
Star Dip
Mellow with sun
and minerals
I stir the surface
of the pool—once
a water tank,
the concrete
dark now
with age.
Overhead palms sing
with orioles
and dead fronds
like vespers
in the valley wind.
So warm
I wait, patient
as a rattlesnake.
Night with her milky
wash of stars—
like other
desert animals
she too
drinks here,
far from anywhere.
Half-day Drives and Valentines
Into your pockets
I stuff
loose magnolia petals
soft as old
dollar bills—
they bruise
easily. Miles above
the everyday
our glass car
trails hedione, molecules
too small to see,
that delicate earth scent
of love
and early spring.