Tuesday, August 18, 2015

Crow takes a turn

curbside crow
lying like 
dark gloves.
market body bag.
trash can.
night clan dream.
buried among
they count.

Wednesday, April 22, 2015


Take it from me  now.

You are standing.
Facing sea.
When you speak
your voice draws a ray.
You call it shoreline.
The moment you demarcate it,
it is yours, not to be shared.
But then the moon and the
pulling, bruised night
take back this possessive.
You look down.
Your blue feet are an inscription.
Under the hood of cloud cover
you ask for more light.
You need more light.
The shine rolls away, leaving
this opaque gender,  loss.
You want to ignore these shapes.
Feet are so familiar, too final.
After endless illuminations
they settle under a shore that sparkles.
Beneath the next moon you
try to explain with gestures,
hands that sign deja vu,
that hold nothing
and release everything.

Tuesday, March 03, 2015

Google This

All along the mnemonic path
I had left little devices to
Catch those yesterdays'
New things of old.
Snares of a sort, a pinwheel
Or two. Were they spinning
Clockwise or counter?
A cleanly seen associate.
What does that feeling of
Approximation feel like?
The person, the word,
The time of that year?
What I am tempted to do
I fear will destroy that impulse
To natively remember from
Within my own mind.
Once a memory, now,
Just information retrieved.
Much of what is easy is,
Like absorbent cotton, mopping
Up for me. A dumb provider.
Sit down false necessity.
Let me do this myself.
Give me a little time,
Just a little time.

Thursday, February 05, 2015

An Appreciation of the Sun

The sun looks for me. 
It is undaunted in the
Way it searches. 
Not the naked dirty elm
Nor the highest floor
Will stand in it's way.

It sketches the winter lilac
On the house wall. 
The black dog's doppel
Passes through. 

Inexpensive zircon
sparkles in the snow. 
Glint of tiny prisms. 

The word welcome
Comes to mind. 
It floats from my mouth. 
A small enough cloud. 

The sun climbs on me
Looking into my eyes. 
It dresses me in 
What's available.
Out of the blue,
The mysterious blue,
It buttons each button. 

I celebrate mid-morning. 
Such a wardrobe. 
Such an ever-light necessity. 

Friday, December 19, 2014


The marks were of precision.
They ran from stage left to right.
No one remembered 
the shortness of just hands,
the way they carried water,
the touch of the not visible life
sustained in the same way
we awoke each day and
prayed the sun up.

The televised life is a sleight.
Sparks of electricity, furious voices,
images formed from small fires.
Long lost immediacy and repetition.
Messages carried by a messenger
bringing the final message.
The thing to be extinguished.

"I hear voices," my young son said.
The subvocal is shirtless,
squinting, smoking a cigarette.
Now he wears a raincoat,
now a soft blanket over his shoulder.
Finally a dark hat pulled low.
"Don't believe everything you hear,"
He says. 

The u-turns are flocking.
Through a doorway a long look
grows, breaks the surface,
breathes, then branches down
into the source.

The look is taken in hand.

Monday, July 28, 2014

Finding the Source ?

So we, being Kim, me and kids, set out for Ewing Park yesterday.  Sugar Creek quietly slices through this little bird and butterfly watching park. And after a previous recon  involving Sierra and me we came dressed to wade the mighty creek in search of its source and encounter it's wild life. But even Kim's waders would succumb to the depths of this deceptive stream. First we encountered a  soft shell turtle the size of an eight piece pizza. I picked it up to see how far it would think it was going while practicing "air running". I quickly placed him back in the stream as Jeremiah had warned me this turtle was a snapper and it would eat us. Further upstream we encountered a beautiful butterfly that hitched a ride on Kim's butt. I later identified it as a Question Mark.
Not Kim's butt, the butterfly. . Later the kids saw what they described as a Rat snake further down stream. Jeremiah worried it was poisonous but Sierra quickly said "only if you're a rat!" Since we never reached the source of Sugar Creek we will make another expedition in the future with supplies and chips. 

An explanation

Trouble with explaining about poetry:The words are always carrying on a clandestine affair with each other, and implicating the thought.

                                                         -William Stafford

Friday, May 23, 2014

Free hand

I am running out of ways I can note my hand.
Laying it on a scale is hopeless.
Each assay takes me further away 
from what I am searching for. 
Like a forgetting, the space around it
becomes mapless, without orientation.
I am losing my hand 
is my hand lost?
I inquire within over and over.
 I feel like I've just 
entered another room
where I can't recall
why I came into it.
Approaching  Planck
what appears to be form
seems to be dissolving.
Hand appears and disappears,
pouring itself into emptiness.
Until I type this...