Photos from around the yard

Some iron work surrounding our bird feeder

Believe it or not, this is a spider (two?) in water at the bottom of the tube that holds our porch umbrella.

"You talkin' to me?"

"drug of choice"

my daddy
never took a drink
in his life
but was,
never-the-less,
constantly drunk.
and like any addict
worth his ilk,
drug his children along
on his hazy, besotted ride.


church.
the whispered hallelujahs,
the ghostly images
hiding in the stained glass
(of course no one
ever saw them
but me),
the inebriated hymns
sprayed with slurred speech
all haunt me
to this day.


addiction,
no matter the substance,
is still abuse.


camp meetings
were the worst.
one-hundred fifty
punch-drunk believers
drinking scripture
in the middle
of nowhere --
the devil lurking
among the crickets
just passed the tent flaps --
were enough
to scare any fifth-grader
into the arms
of a sweaty lush
dying to plunge him
beneath an icy lake.


to my surprise,
i survived
(finding rehab
in the bottle,
the word,
and the moon)...
but i still watch
my daddy,
and hundreds of thousands
just like him
drive aimlessly
in circles,
and appreciate 
what he tried to do
for me,
but his
just wasn't
my drug
of choice.

"Coping With Winter From Dusk 'til Dawn"

i caught a sliver

of dusk

trying to escape

between branches

of oak and elm,

wrapped it around

my finger,

and slid it into 

a bottle of wine.

it burned at first,

but as evening

waxed into night,

and the contents

of my jug waned,

the luscious juice

ran like honey

across my tongue --

sedative and soporific

in the blue-gray clumsiness

of a three-day

georgia snow.

there's little more

to do on days like this

than drink, screw,

and chase the sunset 

across the hills

with hatchet

or lead pipe

while james carter

scorches the brain bone

with precipitous turns

of ambrosial blessedness.

in the end,

when my bottle

lays empty on the carpet

and my woman lies naked

across the bed,

i'll remember

that sliver of dusk...

the heat it induced...

the ecstasy it injected

through my veins...

and sleep soundly,

confident that dawn

will eventually attempt

another escape

between branches

of oak and elm.

More Photos

Holding Hands - A Sculpture

Weeping Buddha

Ganesh

Photo Expedition in Acworth, GA

Old Bell Clanger

Cool Old Shack

Old Window - Color

Old Window - Sepia

"down the road"

*for Suzanne

i had forgotten

how lovely

you look

in my hat;

your hair

a maniacal

auburn nest

grasping for air.

sitting on the sofa,

watching you,

snow burying our lawn,

i remember that time,

long ago,

when i played stieglitz

to your o’keeffe,

shooting you

in an abandoned ruin

off some street,

downtown mobile.

you wandered among

fallen bricks,

naked from the waist up;

your impish tits

not yet evolved

into the motherly breasts

on which i now

lay my head.

(one of those portraits,

you with hands on hips,

head held high

in a silent, defiant

showdown with god,

still hangs on the wall

above my chest-of-drawers.)

afterward,

we drove to your place,

walked into the orchard,

and made love in the grass –

the scent of apple blossoms

sweet on the wind.

 perhaps,

sometime soon,

you, i, and that hat

can take a road trip

to some forgotten urban ruins,

or an abandoned orchard,

camera in hand,

and give me something else

to remember

another sixteen years

down the road.

"one-eleven-eleven"

bunkered and secluded
in rare georgia snow,
nerves frozen,
on edge,
i long to be
a singapore blacksmith
slinging steel
on the bow of a
cherry-wood junk
moored in the moonlight's
drunken smile.

i would feed my fire
with whiskey and wine
as sweet chinese harlots
dance naked
on the beach.

i would hone my blades
with poetry;
sharpen their edges
with the divine,
and at sunrise
weigh anchor,
hoist the sails,
and attack the horizon
with violent, insatiable
love.

but alas,
i sit at my window
like squinty-eyed carruth,
with a half-empty bottle
and coltrane,
watching the sun
jump from the ice
in a taunting, stunning
dance.

"immediate thoughts at the window"

I.

snow,
pure and uninhibited,
drifts elegantly
from branch to ground.
as i watch
from window
cool air
grazes nakedness,
illumination
dancing on thighs,
penis,
belly,
working toward
psyche,
bouncing among daffodils
locked away
in consciousness,
awaiting coming sun
that breathes breath
across billowing horizon...

II.

now dressed,
intensity has faded,
purity buried
behind a facade
of cruel buildings
and automobiles.
temptation to undress
and lie naked
on the floor,
cool air kissing
my perfection,
is strong,
but i will wait
until tonight
when the breath
of another can join me
beneath lilting hand
of a winter moon.

It's snowing in Georgia!!

Here's my oldest, Abigail.

This is Sophie.

Withering Cedars under siege.

Our ever-vigilant gargoyle.

"a quiet, insignificant gesture"

in the rain,

the rain,

yes, again, the rain,

i drove,

in gray, tremulous rain,

to find plum wine

with which to warm

my belly and my soul,

and in the rain,

headlights dancing

on the bumper before me,

a smudge monkey

peered from the dust,

its long arms reaching

for the curb...

and freedom...

but only for an instant,

before it sank again,

covered by the intensity

and animosity

of the rain.

my wine awaits.

i have no time

to mourn.

"digging the mine"

gift

sunrise

morning star

infinitely

intoxicating

gather in my shadow

push me toward farthest heaven

angel with gin-soaked wings

intoxicating
infinitely

beautiful

lover 
gift

for my wife who made a comment a few weeks ago that I "used to write her poetry all the time."

haiku

holy sage smudged breasts
blessed beneath old shadow trees...
intoxicating.


1/3/11

"revelation of the pelican"

dive, dive -
insignificant words
dive below
the surface; 
pelicans
chasing a mud-skipper -
barracudas,
an albatross.


heatwave
hallucinations
dancing on the street
are all one needs
from time to time
to shake the dust
from the cobwebs
and tighten the toes
for dancing.


dive, dive
no more today.
skim the fat
from the surface
and chew on life
for a while.

1/2/11

"on seeing a vagabond crossing hwy 92"

interstate prophet,
your staff
is crooked and lean.


release the witness
you hold in your hand
from her bottle
and sail
among the cars
on wings won
among bones
in shadows of the cross.


your message,
scattered along the curb,
tangled and broken,
won't get far
without your breath.


pick it up
and swallow.


your words, too pure
to fall,
must hang from the trees
and the door posts -
mud, damnation,
and all.


1/1/11