Fly Fishing

The nymph sailed then dropped, playing him the way water plays a river bank, floating atop with a whisper, lips brushing against his cheek, gazing through clear cool water, easing into the arms of an eddy. 

Abruptly, she’s flung into the blue sky, zigging an zagging at the mercy of her mistress wading forward ready to cast at a newer bank. Repeat.

B.F.M.

Trollhood

I didn’t become a troll on purpose. It happened after the falling in love was done, when the fog filled costal valleys, when the silver tarnished and you no longer saw me in the silvery light of a spoon.

B.F.M.

Near-Sighted

My eyes see you 

inches from me

my heart feels

you’re

a marathon away.

B.F.M.

Show You the Door

If I show you a door, do I need to supply dialog? Would it be the same as a window looking out into gray harsh misted field where buffalo once roamed in rooms as large as dinosaur skulls? There is a Neanderthal boy in the field, running, playing or fleeing it hasn't changed. All these, are things of a changing order taking millions of years during which a trillion-billion-million snow flakes will fall, then you will be born. Broken. Healed. Broken. Chased across a field of dandelions. Loved. Madness bouts. Loss. Then you or I will be eaten by a yet to be named virus that causes someone to dream a reality that makes you believe you are the beginnings of a sun.

B.F.M.

Haunting

When you’ve grown accustomed to spring water springing between polished rocks, it’s haunting when its cadence diminishes to a drip, drip, drip, stop.

B.F.M.

Dog Story, One

I didn't see the hit. I saw the old dog, Australian Shepard mix, motionless. I saw two cars banked, two wheels on, two wheels off the roadside's ledge. I saw a women standing over the dog looking down, and a man walking toward the dog. All three looked helpless, like a dog that's been hit.

B.F.M.

Medium Grind

Coffee ground to medium, shifted to French Press. Water to almost boil. Five minutes, then pour. Dark like early morning. Half & half like the sun rising. Drink.

B.F.M.

Fishing

Two kingdoms 

face-to-face

thumb side up.

One life line 

a choppy sea.

The other, 

a smooth lake 

from palm bottom

to Thumb & Index Bay.

My pen bridging 

torrid waters

resting on edges, 

waits for a nibble
on the cast line.

B.F.M.

Tumbling Heights

Poets may not be hero tough, but we can walk between clouds. Live off thin-thin air. Shoot flaming arrows at the stars, tumble gods to earth.

B.F.M.

Wildebeest

In an effort to stay hidden, I wear a cardboard box over my head. I've painted faces on each side. Side one, my mouth is a cerulean crescent; side two, my mouth is a straight black charcoal line; side three, it's a 4h penciled "O"; side four, I leave blank, as to appear that I have it all. 

On walks, I skip.

B.F.M.