Ivy Church Lane


Her shorts hang from narrow hips,

her blouse holds every breath.

He wears a pair of ragged jeans,

his beard prickles half a palm.


Ivy Church Lane leads to a lake

shadowed by trees and rocky cliffs.

She hopes for everlasting love.

He hopes to love her on a rock.


Rings of ripples come from wings—

the water’s surface traps a bee.

He takes a twig and the bee climbs,

but under water goes the twig.


A bubble grows around the bee

which tries to climb and live.

But soon enough he turns the twig.

The lovers laugh and touch.


Finally, everything lets go;

the bee, the hand, the clothes.

The lovers forget the bee

the way passion forgets cruelty.

Look; Sculpture


"Look; sculpture, an exact replica right there,"

   real exploding fireworks in a daytime display,

   with bursting molten flowers, bangs and whistles

   and zillions of crackling sparklers zigzagging away

   from numerous swooping, spinning missiles.


"You feel foomps and thumps, booms in the air,"

   and 'wow!' 'oohs!' 'aahs!' and 'woo's' chant pretend

   appreciation for the extravagant free show

   until the last smashing blast pounds 'the end'

   and families go home and smoke drifts slow.


"Pull over, stop; let’s get out and stand where"

   green shade and silver sunlight surrounds us.

   We know who we are by what we tend to see,

   important revelations as brilliant, obvious,

   as a country roadside weeping willow tree.


from Virtual White Orchids, 2001