Category: Poetry

these words are the problemthis line and this phraseand thisthishereev-er-y-syl-la-blemuddies the studybut what is a poem with no humor hem or thread to holdthe tune or rhymethe rhythm and timethat we’d rather not seebut must be freelyseen as the stroke of a brushif spoken a gust leaving trails in the dustand intractable rust she bristles Read More …

singing praise before I could read the hymnal and my mother’s prayers before she passed cut the first furrows of unmerited grace grooves that ease the floods cut deeper by flowing waters a ditch less than a scar creates a path the path creates a run a run creek stream river singing praise full and Read More …

The moon is not whitenor silver nor grey The moon is agedlike a familiar lover She gapes full and rounda yellowed parchment poem Her rhythm slow above the treelineHer rhyme cuts cloud and sky Like a tired old toothtoo knowing and known to be bashful The clouds catch nothing of an unseen suna musty grey-blue Read More …

The whispering starlight betrays knobs angled round, bonewhite, paired with, a borrowed pen. Read More …

When I wake to my alarm I wake alone, by myself, and roll my head into my arm and nudge the day onto the shelf. — Weeks pass slowly with no one near, sometimes not at all. Hopes fade dim, none appear with morning’s blushes on the wall. — My sleep is barren, my bed’s Read More …

The viscous air of childhood slowed our every move. We filled our tired, pumping lungs what we know not of. — Perhaps nostalgia premature haunting unaware or dreams to be and memories traced fingers through our hair. — The atmosphere of time long past, the essence of those days, brushed up against our consciousness in Read More …

Spring.  Before. — Rain.  Not snow.  But almost. Drench down leaves.  Sleeping wood. Soak ice rocks.  Thaw ice dirt.  Drown ice mud. Green grass still green. Yellow grass might be green again. Green trees ever green. Brown branches might bear green again. Bulbs hibernating. Seeds waiting. Patient, already itching inside. Up, out soon. Warm not Read More …

I was born of a wicked root long past, and little of that day I should now know, but to my own father I came at last and sad recognition his face did show. This revealed that which I was unaware: adopted into royal care and love, I’d grown and thrived in wholesome garden air Read More …

My Morningly Visit — and every day begins with coffee; the fresh ground percolations pull me out of the echoing caverns of league-deep sleep. — Sleepy illusions compose the newspaper of imagination. A well-wrought column greets the morning with an enthusiastic bow, but the writer didn’t run out for caffeine last night and his grammar Read More …

Today’s Tantalus — Spread the ashes of last night’s meal over the corpse of its conversation. After-dinner mints won’t freshen the aftertaste. — Bitter because I sucked off the sweet and my tongue touched tart. Pucker at the thought: so sour. — Too impatient to let her marinate. Too careless, I was stewing. There is Read More …