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Six Poems


Spanish Limes

The sour moons grow sweeter
each night on the stem:
citrus concubine,
sultana of Spanish limes.

Urges deep inside the stubborn wood
slowly mold her essence toward perfection,
arms full of gifts, emerald eggs.

An avatar of sorts, seasonal,
her love is simple as a circle:
gifts for everyone, then none.

I will relieve her tired arm
and pick the moon for my curd,
the green juice of her crushed jewelry.


Vanishing Species

No more long horn shrimp,
nor unicorns or moon snails,
no buffalo in the empty badlands.

The Snowy Plover and Marbled Murrilet
are chased away by a chain-saw.
Our cities and strip mines scar the world.

In a cell underground the timber barons
and copper kings confess their sins to a skull.

Deep in forests the calypso orchid hides.
A choir of wolves screams in the jet stream.


Cactus Garden

Standing still in a cactus garden:
agave, mescal, organpipe.
Distant mud hills glaze like dented bronze.
Light and shade pinch the dune's edge crisp as a thread.

Spirals above: ravens and red tails ride a twister.
Screaming winds grow quiet as a thorn.
Sandstorms leave a trail of pink yarn in the sky.

In this wide transparent afternoon
every ant and sparrow is a king.


Two Quatrains


Why trouble myself about a troubled world
and make it worse?
I'll plant wildflowers in my wounds.
Music and celebration sweeten the growing corn.


All day the warblers talk with their echoes,
back and forth in a tunnel of trees.
We are all echoes of another thing.
A good melody repeats itself.



Shape shifter, magician of camouflage
in a tartan cape of seaweed,
transparent spider of fog and cellophane...
his many arms are vague,
blending with the stones below...
his suction cups, carnivorous
flowers for the angel-fish
in a cage of whips.

Ever-changing painting in the wave,
he swims away in a mask of mirrors,


The Grain

The way that currents flow
and smoke meanders
in effortless accord.

Feel it in the yielding marble,
peanut jasper or jade.
See it in a leaf or seashell's veins,
tide lines on the sand.

In deepest sleep we are perfected.
In deepest creases of wood
runs the grain.


copyright © 2010 Hale Thatcher All rights reserved.