He Was Always There


When I was three and couldn't see,
he put me on his shoulders. Fell
in the Colorado, his strong arms
rescued me.

Fishing knots and baseball gloves,
a bicycle, 'The Cattle Call.' Even
when I hurt him, his broken heart
still cared.

At college; all alone in tears.
A phone call, he came running.
Stranded, car broke down again,
a ride was on its way.

Songs went wrong. A faded love.
Few then stood beside me. When
all fair-weather friends were gone,
he stood proud and true. 

Through years of plenty, famine too,
peaks and darkest valleys. A fortress
strong; a friend so true. Daddy,
he was there.





Royalty Of The Garden


Azaleas trail in Tyler, thinking of home 
bush. Copper blushes hem the habits of red-
orange astrinium, and lacebugs stipple 
the shapely hips of wakening leaves. 

Southern charms weep after rain, christening
my palms with vintage cheerwine. Double-
blossomed coral bells dote upon my nearsight.

Bridesmaids flank bronze beauties clasped 
in choker strands of lavender elegans, 
and pink pearl. Sherwood reds flame passions
mid-season: bold, and virile in early light. 

Indica birth in terrible twos, then wilt to rest
from posing. The terminal pride of Mobile 
lingers, fragrance gilds her suffering.





Summer Song


Nature's lute fruit: 
'Ode to Joy.'
Requiem for rebirth.
Uncaged, sublime elegance.
Pastoral meditation borne
skyward on the graceful, 
limpid wings of unthreatened 
sanctity. 
Peace.
Thornless rose.
Honeysuckle scented summer
breeze.
Elusive tree frog serenade;
sonnet of grateful praise.





Oaths & Psalms


Summer, early solstice—the greater
of two lights reflects on adding dayspin
to the sun; still ruminant and in the dark
about the weather. A single Texas 

rosebush dotes upon her yellow ribbons,
and that first dance beside a sipping
stream. I am not a warrior poet— 
musicians are passive men—byline

silhouettes with twenty-dollar bills
and slices of frozen pizza. I will not 
offer you vinegar on a sponge at the 
point of a spear, or track your rem sleep 

from sleuth shadows. There are trimmed 
candles in my pocket. I plant tulip bulbs 
in snowmelt. Oaths are like psalms. Flesh 
is never weak that wets a finger in the wind 

to divine a way to share another’s burden--
death can only break the vows we pledge 
to let it part.