Short Sweepings Poems

a thing beyond,
once kept close
now
an aberration
a cipher
in patterns of dust
in the 
       sweepings
of my yesterdays,
a happening
that has become
history...

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Against a fence, glib looks descend; 
somethings will not mend.

Pockets empty, belly too, fill it 
With sweepings, firewood chopped
From dried old yew.


Ignomeny? Plain to see. The past 
Can’t rescue,what’s not there to see....

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Thresholds curl into entrances
where damp crows circle.
I can see through the hedge
where the wind is barelegged.
A groundhog carries sparrow bones
from the bare shelves of dawn.
Halloween will be late this year
the dead are still dying....

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With as little thought, think you
Can be brushed aside
All their concerns, as waste of
Sweepings to one side?

Then have you not once witnessed
The regard given
To duck clans, a road, crossing.
Respect, more lordly
To elephant, real king, he
By pride-shrunk, stomped men!...

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A spider thin calligraphy, a varicose script
upon the shallow sheen of mortality.

Are these the genetics of a divine act
arriving as green stems,
weeds and blooms all in a tangle?
A scratchy nib of doodled ideas?

Behold the dying and the replenishing,
the glory of the shedding.
All this upon a tumbled forest floor
where imagination plods daily.

More marks upon a blank page
developing slow
in the low light of scribbled thoughts.
More night flowerings and late sweepings....

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