Moonrise with the Horses

The stables are on the left,  nineteen
horses, one black one. painted
splotches of white, nimbus clouds in the night
dark

There ways.   Their sweat and mane, scent.
He draws cyclones in the sand with his fingers,
draws,  their attention,  and paints the corral
with music from his eyelids. 
There is a red line to the east.   grows
into a circle.  fits
into the spaces between their ears
makes
them fire stallions.

the horizon is an ember, is a city, and then is a volcano.   here
 comes the feeling
of losing control. again.  here comes the place. meant, 
we all imagine ourselves riding bare back through
our dreams. 
moon beams.
coyote screams. 

the reins hang loosely over the saddles. 
I just want to ride!.  gallop through the night
for the pure sensation of fast /  to nowhere. 
imagines it.  brings chills to his skin and body.
the black horse with the star on its nose stares into my thoughts.
no words.
can describe a moonrise in the desert. 
somehow we reconcile our fear of each.  others have been scared to death,
broken all four legs,
but here we are..     alive,
 dancing in each other's faces

;   the desert is alive, the rocks are alive,  they make standing with you
bearable
I keep looking at my hands.. and so I am not hopelessly lost inside your beautiful
copper face
The other eight-teen horses watch us from the corners of their eyes.. 
jealous.  no. 
certain of our diminished sanity.
they admire us.  





Andrew Tipton

Red is Everything

Andrew Tipton

Conversations of Balance

The sky has edges. and
they are made of patchwork. silk quilts.
Black light.to the touch. 
 I swum laps in waves of tall bending grass,
at sunset. you almost drown in their red golden.
deepness.
Tree pose.  As an island.
 Closes his eyes and there are two hawks waiting.
for a conversation.
Ravens follow me to the edges. and linger on fence posts. 
If you can speak the language of stillness.  Now is the time!
For an entire song.  Or.  Until your legs break.
 from underneath.  
His fingers stretch in perfect. threads to the sky.lines
to the center of the moment.
-----She says:  "yes, balance does exist..   yes."   it does.   
And it grows towards him..
He believes in the subtleties; black birds swaying on.on powerlines.
E VEN LY.  spaced.   
He believes you must become a thing to see it.  s
unfathomable angles.  
it. s   necessity  and majesty.
All living things tremble outwards towards him,
reclaiming their
balance




Andrew Tipton

Roaming Trails

Andew Tipton

Six Times in a Circle

Green tea stains everything
on the pages,
it makes the words
hazy.
|turns,
the cursive into jumbalia,
puts grace into my mispelings. because
the poems
make more sense when you can't read
them.
 almost
makes you want to read them more, that way
so you drink recklessly.  
hand-crafted mug, pottery - sip splash.
your new medium,  Green Tea Poetry
algorithms, presidential debates, science fiction.
We are the creationists, the writers, the leaf pickers.
the blue
lines,
on the page are melting. 
no more blue collars. 
around my neckline.
no more order. no mas. 
Solemente liberdad.  Green Tea stains.
everything. 


Andrew Tipton

Cahaba River Lillies

  These gorgeous flowers only bloom once a year (in May) in the Cahaba River,  there are literally thousands of them in places..  as you kayak down stream you are surrounded by their fragrance.    Before leaving for Puerto Rico, Ryan and I took a trip to the river and were overcome by their natural beauty.   

 

Dulcimer Festival

Miss Dorene..  Making quilts for nearly 60 years,  the name of this one on the left is "Drunkard's Walk" -   She told me that the swaying lines represent a man who has had to much whiskey!   


 


Robert,  hand builds his dulcimers from mahogany and walnut.  I talked with Rob for nearly an hour and he filled me in on the stories and orgins of the Appalacian dulcimer.    An intelligent and mischevious guy..  I really enjoyed his company. 

Andrew Tipton