Apr 7 2017

where we are going,
where we have been

and are they
one and
the same?

the questions roar
and the answers
take flight

and the trees just
stand there





Apr 6 2017

the way you stand so tall

in the mirror of everything
sky raining down around you
in a pattern of potential
with the fortitude of grace
dripping cold from
squared-off shoulders
as if sunshine
could be ordered and




Apr 4 2017

tunnel of light

or if velvet could fly

and the way i watched that hawk
brushing a new painting
of sky

as i tried to write a poem
that was not about death

and smiled at simple




Apr 2 2017

these days

i’m dizzy all the time

and i’d like to say that’s metaphor,
(and it is, a little)

but i can’t seem to stand
in one place
long enough
to stop the spinning

i thought age
would keep me steady
strengthen roots
chart my course

but the world is cockeyed
and ambitious
and i get closer to antique
every day

rebellion is for youth
(or so i thought)

but here i am
(here we are)
fighting for things
i thought already won

and that’s just the way of things
isn’t it?

nothing is certain

we fool ourselves
into new beginnings and lit
lights and the mirage of

but the truth is
it’s a never-ending battle
and i think understanding
that one simple thing
sustains us

i grow old on the banks of a river
running circles
around us all




Apr 1 2017

blown sideways on a map
of self-destruction

i think that’s what she said while trying to smile
and i never was one to argue with deliverance
even after tilt-shift became a normal point of view

i wanted to hold you
at least your hand
but paper thin skin
kept rising between us

none of us means to die
even when we want to

trying to smile at her own lost joke
fingers scrabbling at the corners
of a crooked mouth gone dry

like the wind i drank
to forget your sky




A poem a day for 30 days, in honor of National Poetry Month.
No rules this year, just poems. We will see what happens.

Feb 20 2017

the sky is falling

you sing me songs of february summer
and i laugh at the absurdity
nothing makes sense anymore
and everything

is a tune
from those long ago years
when we believed
in certainty

i smile and i dance
at words
spilled from
wist and sunshine

so ripe with yesterday’s
short season of naiveté

when we were young
and you were golden
and i
was just a rose




Jan 10 2017

illumination (a discussion)

there is gold and there is freedom

you say neither one
in the grand scheme
of things

our hands are always left empty

i mention the scars
of experience

the stars

whisper something
of the moon

the way the sun
is always in your eyes

paper crinkled
and satisfied

or beckoning

i’m not sure which




Jan 4 2017

chaos is a pattern

just ask nature, she’ll be happy to let you know
that dance was invented by willows
weeping at winter’s impostor
and stars are made from moans left hanging
on a breeze in the corner of reflection


we are all mirrors on the same wall of eternity
chanting hope and charity with leavening


this circle this tree this mind mattering
tossed by cold gale and rent from warm earth
growth and decimation occur concurrently
it doesn’t matter where you stand
it doesn’t matter where you stand


darkness always returns
as does mo(u)rning





Dec 9 2016


snow falls gently through a sky bleeding sunshine

through the closed door i hear geese
warming their way through a morning
most of them will survive

i cling to small things. moments, really
and wish i could gift them to you

i know a whole list of people with that name

the miracles gather and hover
hoping to land, gently

winter is coaxing autumn to bed
with an ever-changing quilt
of cozy promises

a patch of blue peeks through worn cotton batting

needs no mending


Oct 19 2016

the kitchen window

which is not the same as the kitchen sink
because that would mean everything,

and this is just a window.

and just now, there is too much everything,
every minute.

i want clear blue sky and calm cool morning.

but it’s autumn and the colors are raucous
and speaking of raucous,
i’m missing those crazy-loud geese parties
down at the swamp
that aren’t happening this year

because there’s no swamp.

and i’m not writing because there are no words.

so i wait.

and winter will come and i will miss all this color
and wish for things I don’t have
the same way as today

and that bird in the tree,
that bluejay who spends his days
as a beautiful bully

and the monkshood just starting to bloom,
in amidst all the kisses that need cutting down

and this could all be metaphor
for so many things,
but it’s not, it’s all true,
right outside

this tiny kitchen in

this tiny house

this tiny life