Sunday Morning (VI, VII, VIII)

VI
In heaven in silence sit
vast statues of stone
on earth there is no quiet
stone clouds break open
what does the thunder say?
Don’t sit under the apple tree
fall is the mother of beauty
with anyone else but she.
She doesn’t like her picture
taken nor to be in a poem
does not care she is beauty
but takes time with her hair
avoids rules not her own.
Heaven falls from the sky
no heaven no earth below.

VII
Words are not a product
of heaven but of earth.
Sunday morning returns
with a cup of French Roast
under a grapevine wreath
looped herbs and flowers.
The coffee smells of earth
the first gentle rain stirs
petrichor into the air
the dry grass two crows
the cat on the dirt path.
In heaven no senses no
tenses no need no rain
no sun no mud no crud.
All sense is earthbound.

VIII
Sunday morning slows
autumn leaves falling
where she lives and walks
in fine form and talks
of the lovely noisy
nights and dirty days
of clean kitchens
and open stays
all means understood
and confused all reason
clear and absurd
peaceful and happy
stones that turn
to stories and poems.
How many choices in one
heaven on one earth?

Sunday Morning (IV, V)

IV
She is content with the calico cat
poosha the boy pilot who crashed
his plane in takeoff suckled home
the Stones on the transistor mother
smothered with a cover of beauty.
For content she talks about crows
the two in the street eating squish
squirrel but the murder on leaves
the warm asphalt melting summer
sun heat where does heaven hide
and why at night come monsters
from paradise looking for a name.
She will not join a community
whose purpose is to persecute
another heaven a different earth.

V
Satisfied she collects the stories
of the stones beauty calcified
in underground electromagnetic
waves on a static spirit oldie
station where sleeping birds
again awake to the murder
of the sun or return not
and even the earth’s rot
will not endure and old
trips up the coast memorized
in slide shows by campfires
that death may be related
to beauty the birth of moods
passion splurge now dead
urges flown to beauty’s abode.

Sunday Morning (III, II, I)

III
Oh my Zeus a girl Suze by Jove!
No god got involved the parents
the ruin of beauty and paradise
a coffee shop she a cupbearer
waitress to the young men new
to the surfboard of wet thought.
The waves roil with oily sludge
the kids play run from the blob
of the reclamation plant lazy
jets from lax prodding probing
the puffy foggy overcast clouds.
Bucketed fish guts and heads
on the pier odors the paradise
she comes to know and to love
evening gold and morning blue.

II
Why should she give it up to him?
What is love if he can come only
in noisy fantasy and nightmare?
Her dolphins play in their waves
charismatic and whole while he
came to end all frolic and family
for some abstract community
of musty prayer and the comfort
of wet sackcloth and cold ashes.
He who lived within herself
washed up on a desert beach
her desserts shells for a shelf
her soul he saved in a bottle
labeled I am not to drink in
letters from a foreign field.

I
Malaises of the nightgown and wait
for the coffee in the well worn bed
and the matted habit of a real cat
up in her window seat dome room
coalesce to repeat the profane
reminder of ritual dismission.
She dreams not and moves awake
with the eye of the storm encircled
by each newfangled catastrophe
as wealth darkens among Malibu
lights across Santa Monica Bay.
Against a rude screen true bugs
intrude like the kitchen roaches
scattering from the sudden light.
The day is like El Porto happy
with friends and popular songs
until the coming of the cat poop
cup up the stairs all the way
from the sway of bread and beer.

Sunday Morning (II, I)

II
Why should she give it up to him?
What is love if he can come only
in noisy fantasy and nightmare?
Her dolphins play in their waves
charismatic and whole while he
came to end all frolic and family
for some abstract community
of musty prayer and the comfort
of wet sackcloth and cold ashes.
He who lived within herself
washed up on a desert beach
her desserts shells for a shelf
her soul he saved in a bottle
labeled I am not to drink in
letters from a foreign field.

I
Malaises of the nightgown and wait
for the coffee in the well worn bed
and the matted habit of a real cat
up in her window seat dome room
coalesce to repeat the profane
reminder of ritual dismission.
She dreams not and moves awake
with the eye of the storm encircled
by each newfangled catastrophe
as wealth darkens among Malibu
lights across Santa Monica Bay.
Against a rude screen true bugs
intrude like the kitchen roaches
scattering from the sudden light.
The day is like El Porto happy
with friends and popular songs
until the coming of the cat poop
cup up the stairs all the way
from the sway of bread and beer.

Sunday Morning (I)

Malaises of the nightgown and wait
for the coffee in the well worn bed
and the matted habit of a real cat
up in her window seat dome room
coalesce to repeat the profane
reminder of ritual dismission.
She dreams not and moves awake
with the eye of the storm encircled
by each newfangled catastrophe
as wealth darkens among Malibu
lights across Santa Monica Bay.
Against a rude screen true bugs
intrude like the kitchen roaches
scattering from the sudden light.
The day is like El Porto happy
with friends and popular songs
until the coming of the cat poop
cup up the stairs all the way
from the sway of bread and beer.