After the Fire: San Marcos Pass

A scorched moonscape slashed across the mountain;

Smudgy charcoal tree stumps stood shadowy

against the sore earth.

A rough restless wind blew

ghosts of green grass memory and

a hawk soared high, searching

for warm rodents nestled under the ground.


The springs still seep water; soon seeds will sprout.

Ground squirrels will whistle to each other,

bright on blackened boulders.

I know balance will return;

That the brush is cleansed and renewed.

Ashes will bear life, but

right now it looks like a barren wasteland.


For Brett: On His Birthday

I see your eyes teasing twinkle blue dancing light,
  or sparkle proud bright shiny wet 
    at the corners.
Your hands large, strong, busy building fences;
  and fingers thick, stiff, fish hook scarred
    with nails chewed short –
 rubbing my back and pulling me close.

Is it any wonder my heart swells
  like a tulip lifting its face to the sun
   and exploding orange red with happiness?



Gardening on Minden Drive in Yorba Linda, California
The green grass crushed
beneath my jeans as I knelt
and pulled weeds from the ground.
The soft soil, damp and rich,
released the weeds easily,
their delicate roots brushing myhand.
The sun warmed the back of my neck
and a blue jay hopped nearby,
his bright eyes watching me.
Dirt rained down, shaken from theroots.
I threw them, limp, in a pile.
My marriage is dead.

The Woodpecker

Lifting the garden latch,

we set out on our walk.

The dogs pull on their leads.

We walk among

grey gnarled trunks

with dusty green leaves.

Dust billows beneath our feet.

A staccato

pop pop popping punctuates

the quiet afternoon stillness.

Metallic crimson flashes

between the branches.

He darts from oak to oak

and we try to follow

with our eyes.

But he is too fast.

Holes scar the trunks;

marking his

rebellious path.



My feet walk the frozen fields,

the hard unyielding earth

holding my cold heart;
A flicker stirs within,
nudging a fresh awakening of
memories and consequences.
Anguish crosses
a permeable fabric
woven of whispered wishes.
The flame burns hot,
Fueling regret;
Spitting sparks of truth
That sear and shock.
The fire passes,
leaving warm embers.
Their ashes nourish
my parched earth.
Fields of serenity
replace the stony ground.
Golden poppies blossom and
scatter their seeds.
This poem was written using the following Sunday Whirl wordle prompt.  Pop over for more poetry using this week’s words.