Bio Note: I'm a rock climber and mountaineer with forty-four years of adventures under my boots — and I'm still climbing, though I admit all my climbing partners are much younger and sometimes terrified. I write, too.
Bone thin oak branches, Leafless and mottled gray, Stretch twiggy fingers Toward a scarlet blaze Of penstemon, Eager to rip life away. But summer has frozen Fomori claws And children, Idling among the blossoms, Entranced by their game, Are too busy to notice Ancient menace.
Concrete Night Ahead
An L.A. night Rolls down in blue cascades Like exhaust from some celestial Pontiac. Into that twilight moment Wise, for once, I burrow blunt male fingers Into your shoulder, Easing muscles tight From leaning past Your mother’s I - V. You cover my hand With yours And rest your head On my chest. This moment We love And we both know it — For what it’s worth later On the 405.
Half a Moon
So late It may count as early — You dance over clouds Left from yesterday’s storm, Toe-touching each, Leaving them luminous Behind. Laughing silently, Like a mischievous girl, You’ve stolen dawn’s silver And now flaunt it Across night’s Measureless breast, Teasing the sun Yet hours away.
©2021 Robert Walton
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