Poetry

by

when winter leaves bundle by the roadside
bed perfumed with elderberry wine
my heart a bottomless well of loneliness when I think of you
another night swathed in moon glow for everyone but me
Oh Weaver
why visit only in dreams
meet me under the street light
where I sleep each night on a bench
my coat turned inside out
a pillow
in the hope someone will understand my barefoot journey
walking this pass of love every dusk-filled night of my soul
if only you were the reflection I face each morning
surely you would pierce my heart
lion sits all night gazing at the moon
while honeyed she-lion
loves him back
©jb

GOOD MORNING INDIA

by
snowman

in silence mist falls gently upon the great treetops
Oh Weaver, you wrap your dreamy arms around all who live under your umbrella
hint of sunrise with splashes of magenta and gold
across early horizon, air pregnant with expectation
giant oaks cradled in the alpha heart unashamed in their nakedness.
early this morning I watched seven wild turkeys
cross a grassy knoll, their footprints in winter syncopation
against a snowy quilt
you braid secrets into their autumn breasts
these foragers of winter acorns
once obtained off they go doing their winter rumba
at other places, other knolls
this makes you belly laugh
you like to make angels in the snow
© jb

by

Poor little human heart, I’m vexed you refuse to look beyond your nose. Let’s sit together this early morning like two old grizzlies drinking coffee and eating nachos while dawn wraps herself around our shoulders. Look … the sun is coming up like mangoes and ripe persimmons. Isn’t love grand ….
© jb

GOOD MORNING WORLD

by

earth yawns while a new year manifests in the flick of an eye
owl still gazes the night long, his orange eyes mounting heaven’s ladder while full moon straddles the night sky
same as she has for millions of eons
someone out there is playing the clarinet
©jb

GOOD MORNING INDIA

by

on this cold winter day
aviaries of black birds feast on summer leavings
white tail deer munch in my garden
vagabond neighbors always welcome at our table
sometimes late in the day I see flocks of winged birds
headed for supper-fields
Beloved, guide them to your special place
where huckleberries grow wild in depths of snow
weatherman says more of the same on the way
no one believes him since he got caught
jogging naked at rush hour
© jb