THE COOL SIDE

In Summer’s warmy midnights,

In the whispers of a meager fan,

I turn     in sleep     flip-flop like a

                                                           pancake on the cooktop.

                             Or when my neck goes

                             Moist and soppy,

                             Enough to umber out of sleep

                             And lay there like a fish on a plank.

                                                         I pull my secret maneuver

                                                         And flip the warm pillow

                                                                                (that hot armadillo)

                                                         To the underside of the pillow,

                                                                                (this cooling willow)

                                                         And Ahh…

                                                         down into sleep again.

Acrobat Daredevil Grasshoppers

LIVE

In My Backyard!

From nowhere – from anywhere

They leap!

Flung at incredible speed

To bash into brick,

Slam into wall!

Bounce off my chest and

Hurl their leggy structures

Across the grass or into the bushes.

And this entertainment is FREE!

SPROINGG!   CRASH!

THUNK.

CLACKETY-BAMM!

SWIDDLE and FLOOSH!

Just yesterday, as I found me mowing and moving,

A super-circus grasshopper

Sir Sidney Springmoon (I believe),

Sss-popped up

And

Gripped to the red metal showfloor,

(the hot cowl that covers the blade)

And there he paused, poised…

While

I mowed forward, watching him.

And fearlessly, Sir Sidney shot skyward!

In a triple-backflip spin-around leap,

He sailed through sunshine, grinning up at me,

Then to glance off a sunny rock

And swish into a flowerbed!

This, ladies and gentlemen, is

Top-notch Arachnid Entertainment!

Happy, hoppy, hooplah…

LIVE!

In my backyard.

     The Speaking Sky

        (Psalm 19:1-3)

The heavens declare,

like A voice everywhere

I look up: You are there,

So all Heaven declares.

The clouds have a voice:

The clouds showed me:

                                 A patch of blue.

An opening of paper-torn grace,

Bright blue shining through

downy fluff-cotton white:

“This stormish between us will soon take flight.”

Or Friday, driving home,

Huge billows, sky pillows

Great witnesses or this

All-everywhere audience, applauding

in Smeared glazes of swish

Or silver-white broccoli bushes

Flowering, towering, all across the up,

Speaking to me a deeply-thundering

                       CONFIDENCE,

Huge and silent in my chest:

Im-pressing, In-fusing,

In-breathing,

In-spiriting

A tender-boomy unmeasurable

Orchestral whisp:

                                    The music of Christ, hymning, humming,

                                    Another song of trust and bubbling,

                                    Sweetly, in the laughter of children.

The heavens declare!

Hear their voice everywhere.

You will always be there,

So the heavens declare.

                    Good Night, Fender

                         I'm so sorry
                               so sorry,
                         You finally fell apart
                         with no one to reassemble you.

                         The Genie who granted wishes,
                         Brought giggles, snorts and laugh-bursts,
                         Packed his bag and this time, really left the lamp.
                         Not wearing his tropical shirt.
                         Never to return to Neverland.

                         Apparently, the day took hold and,
                         in a non-comic twist,
                         The day seized you.

                         After all the ups you delivered,
                         the downers took you down.
                         Grounding Peter, dousing Doubtfire, closing Mork
                         and Outmoding Fender
                         who tumbles down the hill
                         rolling through Walt Whitman's leaves of grass.

                         Your funny funnies will never leave, glad and sadly so,
                         ...that frowny-smile, the jewel-blue sparkle in your eyes,
                         ...that voice, those voices, all three million of them, will
                         continue, a flicker-flame, happy-sad, in a Genie-less world.

                         and I think, I think you would want us to turn forward
                         and
                         keep laughing.