Tuesday, May 28, 2013

just a night

no rumble of distant thunder. . .
lightening sparking to the west
no smell of rain in this galaxy scattering
no eleven twenty-five train either. . .
just the steady spiral dance of hours
taken & held
for a moment
moon 37% visible
taken & held

Friday, May 24, 2013

prince dog

there exists my charmed familiar,
a bundle of scuffed & clever atoms
carved from some ancient tale
his short tail
is joy
present in wags & wiggles
this bundle draped in white wired fur
my familiar . . .
he has pulled me from the brink
untied my lashed wrists from train tracks, and unlocked my cage,
nudged from numb & from perilous cliffs
warmth against cool
lassie to timmy
silver to lone ranger
humor disguised as ...well. no.
he doesn't have the bones of subterfuge
he is what he is :
a twelve year old boy-prince, bewitched as a terrier
loving kettle corn, squirrels & sunshine
and me
my familiar ....
this ancient tale, this fairy curse
rests upon a dog with heart

Saturday, May 11, 2013

fortunes tell

lay their hands in a row
palm down to the fire
I will tell all their secrets
love's lines furrowed deep & mired
to have loved
because of hands narrative line
hesitation of strength's tender-land
the catch
the release
of the
love's journey fine


colors shimmy
re-arranging & quaking
tumbling with orchestral grace against the dark
held back by pensive indecision
never blending into champagne or alizarin crimson
unless you turn away
abstract waiting ,,,,,
held by hope
no sideshow line up here
shifting towards the azure mist ....
untamed by age
waiting inside for today

Friday, May 3, 2013

From The Plum Tree . . .

Follow this trail of wordcrumbs to an insightful & beautiful discussion on poetry . . .
be sure to visit the comments section
to discover fellow travelers on this path, and share in the discussion
peace out ,,,

Thursday, May 2, 2013


we strive and dive …
each of us bubble-wrapped against the crash and fail
until we crash and fail with the bloom-boom of cherry blossoms and sound of bluejays
and trumpeter swans
flailing and folded we struggle against the impasse, against the bones of our ancestral veins
finding the pierced circumference of our blueprint
feathered and tethered to the call of stars and meadowlarks
breathing, reaching
gasping and grasping
we rise to test the mettle and mud of our flesh, to stand alone
so so much a part
that which crashed us, that which broke and bent us ….
we are of air and earth
striving and diving
to the ache and call of

Wednesday, May 1, 2013

may day

cardinals bicker in the rain-drenched corners of this morning
startled by the malingering of winter
it is a perfect day to sit,
gathering the seasons to ones soul
like misbehaving marbles
smooth against my sternum
transparent in my hands
wind gusts in, bringing presence
waking the heartsease . . .
as the birds quiet to preform some ancient rite to

head game

there were a lot of people to take in ...
to observe
make up stories about
my dad taught me how to do that - how to watch people - 
imagine their name, start there ....
what line of work are they in, why are they here, what do they love to do,
are they happy ?
it was
the doctor across the aisle
the woman in front of me with the black & white scarf like my mothers
the doctor was restless, running his hands thru his thick gray hair repeatedly
large hands, capable & skilled .... his legs never quit moving, thrumming, tapping to some interior melody that made it almost possible for him to listen
the woman was invited to attend, but hadn't a clue as to what this event was, 
she was lonely and unsure of her place in the world, 
but resolved & stubborn, she would have a good goddamn time if it killed her. 
she was a professional bowler.
his name was Theo, hers was Alice.
the two would meet later over Riesling & rice crackers, and find out they shared a love of Portuguese and New Orleans.
They were both named after poets

while listening to a poet

I thought I lost this one,
somewhere between 120 degrees and its cooling . . .
rising from the bath it slipped on the white tile
lost itself during the thunderstorm
drifting suddenly back
to sit in the palm of my hand
trembling with
the question :
is the poem made better by tucking it alongside a life
to wait
to whiskey age
is this how real poetry is made ?
over time 
taken out and tinkered with
mulled over
is it drop cut word-precise onto a folded napkin
found in your pocket
while sitting in a stone time-traveled church
listening to Ted Kooser speak
hours before the thunder comes ....