Coming and Going

Willfully I clinched 
two poems
white knuckled tight.

You honeyed my
fingers open.

Two monarchs unleashed
flitted
to purple eyed heliotrope.

B.F.M.

Lute

Cavern dripping stalactites 
pooling aquamarine and black. 

Here, the pen dips into ink pots. 

Here, the wind plucks water reeds 

like a lute vexes skin, bone and chromosome.

B.F.M.

Fukiya

Love your work, but

have you ever read: 

The Iliad?

The Divine Comedy?

The Golden Ratio?

The field guide to birds - Arizona & New Mexico;

Fermat’s Enigma?

The Wise Heart?

Pain Free by Peter Egoscue?

The Wild Iris?

Anything by Basho?

B.F.M.

Gathering Material

Each morning I hang

yellow sticky fly traps

hoping to catch a few

and write down their

last dying breaths.

B.F.M.

Editing

Burn every word.

Scorch every sentence.

Return tomorrow

to read the ashes

like one reads 
tea leaves. 

B.F.M.

All the Pretty Girls

In a mountain college town,

I, the elder, pose 

in a coffee shop,

a cliche scribbling 

notes for Mr. Poem.

B.F.M.