Sayings For Sale III

A poem’s fate not only falls on the page

but on the whole cosmic bed

and so —


for my senses to not acknowledge the fresh air

some of which is polluted by the smoke from the burning green…


to fail mention of the deep blue sky littered with seemingly insignificant stars

that if I could reach out and grab a piece of, heavens!!! I bet they’d taste like Gorgonzola…


the sacred arch between the two trees

that one can’t help but speculate nature carved especially for this view

from which I observe, looking past the picket fence into the quiet open park space…


even the waters from the rill are chattering —

thanks to the weekend rain…


the obvious necessity of all these

reveals life as the very surface upon which poetry thrives/dies.


© Heath Muchena, 2013

Poems, Charms and God’s Vineyard II

Been waiting so long my blood has turned cold and purple

and I feel like a lone chameleon in a fruitless passion.


You heard me calling for you, I’m sure you did…

I thought the sweet songs might pique your interest,

but it’s been years and now there’s a clot over the bleed —

the wilted four-leaf clover at the edge of this garden tells all…

the tale of not letting go.


All symptoms show a heart at desire’s end,

a passion watered down,

a spirit on its last glow

and a mind bent on letting go…

so I hope this time it’s not all vine and no taters.


© Heath Muchena, 2013


Earth is the poet’s Heaven.



© Heath Muchena, 2013

Oneironaut’s Nightmare II

The worst disease a poet can suffer

is failure to draw to the surface

the pure waters that sit at the bottom of the well of his soul;

the crippling sickness that makes him conceive in his mind from the wealth of his experience – which should never be separate from all that is —

but disables him from sharing it.


© Heath Muchena, 2013