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Collected Poetry

    (rd king dot net)
poetry and digital art

The Big Picture  

Groups of short poems.

  Morning 


1:  Hybrids

The cactus on the windowsill
is a grafted hybrid, a thing
I've disdained for so long—
but this one, this one basks
      like a dusky mulatto.


2:  April

Thick, gray skies return—slowing
the advance of the dogwood
bloom:  assiduous erections;
the lawn's first mowing; dreams
in which my heart is broken.


3:  Pink

Mourning doves morning upon
the telephone wires—small engines
hum in this series-April light;
the early bloomers gorge
and illuminate—asservate white
      or pink.


4:  Cut Flower

Could this now be the backside
of life?  The gradual increase
of diminishment, or just more of
what-is-less:  the living room seems
quiet, well-appointed—the lilac stem
      in a slender, glass vase.


5:  Spring

Narcissus in March.  Lilac
in April; first poppies, the iris
in April; the iris in May—
rockrose, poppies, lavender sprays
      in June.  Peonies.


6:  Brief Sunlight

Sunlight comes to this place briefly:
the burgeoning bloom on the dogwood,
the whitening burden of bent snowballs,
the increasing deciduous foil age.  Sunlight
comes to this bright place and wells up
      briefly.


7:  Inland Travel

Tall reeds rising at pond edge
separate the rife, cow pasture grasses—
scattered barns, scattered fences, power-
lines.  The bland uncertainties in dull
repose;  the small, agricultural brillances.


8:  Adventure

Crop duster racing down an open field
in the style of a man balancing adventure
with regret—jumping powerlines, jumping
the interstate's large trucks, deftly, against
a backdrop of pylons, the occasional oak
      or palm cluster.


9:  Vineyards

Grape leaves swelling in a majestic layer
of grace, suspended, trained to live
above the brown, laboring farmland
and ditches.  Trees weave a low curtain
behind.  Mountains settle in the distance.


10:  Fruit Orchard

Paired pylons topping the April hills.
Mustard swirling in the right-of-way
weeds.  A cold wind, a warm sun
balances the stirring in the well-tended,
elegant, anticipatory fruit trees.


11:  Morning:1

The morning spent toiling in the yard,
lost in the rhythm of heavy work.
Sweat, small engines, the wind's alliance—
then, a sudden change of venue—the swift,
staccato notes of the spotted Tohee.


12:  Morning:2

In uncertain May, the clouds break
quietly—a sudden light floods the
bedroom walls.  Through the window
quartets of birdsong drift.  I get up,
shower, take the long way to work.





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