Sunday, August 23, 2015

mother and i

mother and i,
she tried to be a grower but
didn’t get grandfather’s green thumb;
i did.

i am the grower and
i am the arranger, too;
that is from my father.

i arrange flowers that are words;
words that are images;
it was his gift.

my aunt says it’s apparent.
she says, i’m my father’s son;
my gilded tongue, sometimes forky;
the softened charm that is rarely refused.

not that i share nothing with mother.
mother and i, we can be alike.
we can be removed;

hidden behind the leaves and roses
among the thorns,
too threatening for curious fingers.

i can, not show the softened heart,
keep my shirt sleeves unrolled.
mother and i; we have only one sun
but very different worlds.

Wednesday, August 12, 2015


(after Christine Boyka Kluge’s Lamb)

i read a poem about a lamb across the valley,
lost and distant and there was mention
of smoke separating the animal from its viewer.

as i think of it now i imagine myself reflected
in the yellowed worn page of the book;
well handled, well read and perhaps well loved.

i see myself as the lamb turned upside down
on the edge of the paper as if a world inverse
of this more complicated reality outside

of its frail edges. i see myself removed
from myself and wonder of the smoke mentioned
and whether it was me who started the fire;
the fire that would eventually eat up the page

into hungry embers and when the lamb

in the image had burned, would i disappear? 


Strangers walking by
Outside the open window
So far from your view

Saturday, August 08, 2015


All in order now
A crimson sky above me
Another dawn smile


Line of cypresses
Gossamer memories fading
So far away now

August 4, 2015

Sunday, August 02, 2015

His father's son
With senses like Waterford
And red ruby heart


No summer kisses
Beneath the Emerald Isle
She waits patiently


Autumn almost here
So distant a time since last
So distant the space


August 2, 2015

Wednesday, July 01, 2015

Thursday, June 25, 2015


Tendrils of steam
Bitter on the palate, sweet
Two faces, green tea

Finch on house, fence
Fencing bravely with song
Protecting my heart

Weeping is willow
Washing the faint sorrow
Being across the sea

Wednesday, June 24, 2015

Pre Dawn

Gentle, birds chirping
Morning dawns my mind stirs
Into scent, green tea

Distance, ocean
Scent of skin on her neck
Lingers, all mine

Contralto singing
Song of recent life echoes
Like tea, all smiles

Tuesday, March 17, 2015

last night's dal

last night's dal
predawn breakfast
ciabatta cooling

so hard to send
smells in words
across the sea

17 march 2015

Tuesday, March 10, 2015


I am falling to you
as unique as anything in
this universe could ever be.

Not as one who loves you
for who and what could
with senses; know you,
and not love you?

Who and what who has
stolen a view of the gentle
tremor of your lips; smiling,
could possibly turn away?

Except in bashfulness like
a child caught staring
at his first encounter of beauty
from across the recess yard.

I am unique.
I am unique because as
a snowflake happens only once;
as it crystallizes into complexity,
for only one; once,

to be gazed upon by your eyes;
your deep green eyes.

I shall have the one journey cast from
an ice cloud and fall, and fall, and fall
as I fall into you.

And after we briefly see each other,
after anticipation;
and landing on your delicate nose,
knowing I shall disappear.

Giving you only one sensation;
the only one that I am capable of, then
melt into less than a droplet of water
into your snowy skin.

But I will not disappear from this world;
I will be absorbed into your being;
become part of you. And
so fleeting as the moment was;
I am become part of you which

is where I have waited my entire
existence for;
it is, where I belong.

(10 March, 2015)

Tuesday, March 03, 2015

the horse and the rider

This was written with no edits as part of an archetypes and visual imagery exercise in which I selected some Tarot cards and one Archetype card (by Sandra Myss) then used the images as cues with as little left-brain thinking as possible. This was written in about 15 minutes. It is interesting what still came out. Or maybe it isn't surprising.


the horse and the rider
trusting fate will come to them
as one or one as two
or two becoming one

with the innocence and trust of a child
of a newborn not yet with knowledge
not yet holding the power of choice
the power of choosing

one path leaves wreckage in its trail
another leaves seeds of life to grow
is it like the trust of the mother and her child
does she know that the child

could be the knight
could be the soldier
or the poet
or warrior monk

could she know that the child
could have the power to create
the power to destroy
the power to make others laugh

the power to make multitudes cry in sorrow
is the sorrow a thing of invention
is it a thing of creation
just as she created the child

or is it a mirror of herself
is the child to be the knight to fight all her dragons
and shed the blood of enemies
or is the child just a mirror of a self

  she would rather not see
  but knows in her heart she is a part of

(February 18, 2015)

Monday, February 09, 2015

Saturday, February 07, 2015


Brahm's "Maestoso" in the hands of Grimaud
Drift down in sheets against a Hebridean sky.

Sudden warm breath above a cold swaying sea
Impinges a moment's annoyance; violation,

Daring to slip a feather onto stony anvil;
Her fingers graze across a sandpapery mane

Seeping her softness into the saline crust
Of the sepulchre of the equine malcontent.

7 February, 2015

*"Maestoso" is the first movement of Brahm's 1st Piano Concerto. In this case, performed by Helène Grimaud with the Southwest German Radio Symphony Orchestra, Michael Gielen conducting.

Wednesday, February 04, 2015


In silence dark masses move;
emotions flow like cooling magma;
like tunneling magma trying to find light;

trying to reach the sky
beneath surging, crashing waves,
violently cooled, subdued by cold;

by metallic brine and cleansing foam
but finding form as steam;
angrily escaping mother's clutch;

ejected into air, seeking darkness again
beyond the blue dome, a frontier to
a still vacuum, one without sound;

the brittle cold of space,
the expanses between celestial bodies,
between stars, galaxies and nebulas;

the closest distance from this state of mind
and an enlightened existence
foregoing circles of cause and effect.

Thursday, January 29, 2015

Napoleon's Horses

Like Napoleon's horses in the Russian winter;
He slips and slides across the frozen river
Sensing the waterbed that lies beneath.

The chilly grave that preserves until Spring thaw
When the carcass of his cares will be freed.
Those who drown always keep their last expression;

Those who find the lost lose morsels of their faith
To a desire that only human hearts can dream of;
And only a god's neurosis would consider granting.

He remembers as sounds of brittle crystals cracking
That using one's last moments in prayer is foolhardy.

January 29, 2015

Galloping Fuck

Today's vernacular for Buddhist detachment: I don't give a galloping fuck.

Sunday, January 18, 2015

Inner Landscape I

(Writing exercise with theme of Inner Landscape. Written on January 15, 2015)

Motion sunrise
Light streaking by
Bare trees grey bark ochre leaves
Grey clouds blue trying to break through
Words sounds like crow's caw
Sounds noise construction
Annoyance anger trigger
Moments moments stillness
Smoke still air wafting
Smells aroma scents
Taste on tongue bitter sweet where's salt?
Speaking pictures thoughts in words fluid
Water emotions flowing but unchanging
Around stones around people
Past anger now anger still
Still the same roots
Roots deep where is shovel
Give us axes
My sword taken away
I have quills sharper than knives
Ink ink colors sienna
Ochre the earth blood Crimson
Where's parchment the canvas
Where's the water for words
Sailing on to places not here
Not here where I'd rather be
Not this family where I'd rather be
Not this culture
Pass me the flint and steel
Words are tinder
The fires will come
A fire horse descends
A sun on its hooves
To scorch to incinerate
Ashes ashes then feathers come
Not returning to this place
This is no longer my bay city
Distant shores faraway sands await