The curtain billowed
soft and aimless,
a ship in a windless room.
Sun spilled
like honey
on the floorboards.
I laid down,
face tilted to light,
as if warmth alone
could undo the world.
_________________________________________________________________________________________________
13 Ways of Looking at The Ocean
I
The sea echoes what ache dares not to say,
a voice a psalm to all it would not keep,
a sun seeps well below at the end of day.
II
A widow waits where salt wind wears the bay,
her silence held beneath the weed and deep.
The sea repeats what sorrow dares not to say.
III
Her child once played along this curling spray,
his name now folded in the tides cold sweep.
A laugh once light– gulls now afar.
IV
The shells still clank in disarray,
each echo sharp as memories that creep.
She kneels to assemble what won’t stay;
fragments of time the sea will never keep
V
Her ship sets out– losing all its way.
No map can tell what secrets seas’ keep.
VI
Driftwood stacks– where young once played;
beside, a castle crumbles,
grain, by grain, away
VII
Kelp knots along the rocks in slow decay,
it’s green blade dulled by sun and time,
still clings, still waits
VIII
Gulls circle and dip,
beyond horizon,
as if chasing a name no longer called.
IX
The sand, keeps no record,
of the feet that once danced here,
only the silence after.
X
Shells split under heel,
a fragment of something once whole,
offered up, then forgotten.
XI
A bonfire ring,
charcoal and ash;
fingers tracing circles in the silt.
XII
The pipers don’t mourn; they wheel, then fly away;
their silence stitched into storms that slowly weep.
XII
The sea roars what woe dare not say,
its voice– bird cry and salt spray.
Still, the sun slips low at end of day.
___________________________________________________________________________________________
Color
Colors exist
to fulfill the
human mind--
with an unimaginable joy--
in which nothing else
holds.
We take advantage of
the little things.
The early songs of morning sparrows,
dew upon grass,
the sun's warm dawn glow.
And so we forget
about the vibrance--
which touches
a feat far within
The blue of the sky,
yellow of the dandelions,
rich auburn of the trees.
What would
the world be
without the bliss
of color.
_________________________________________________________________________________________________\\
An age of moss
The pond-water shimmered
deep
and green
and I was nine.
The frogs croaked
in haste
for an age
I had
not yet met.
The soil damp,
worms aerate;
Beneath the tilth–
what starts
from toes–
soaks into skin.
She connects us all.
Fish glide about–
as if they swam
through belief
before belief
A faith seeded
prenatal
A herron cried–
so near– frogs fled
Perhaps–
from fear
Or perhaps
a bolt from age–
The sun lists
upon skin–
she grants below
a worm dried upon the pavement
of which
even the birds
ignore
_________________________________________________________________________________________________
Native Absence
Heartache:
A pressure upon bone,
upon flesh--
Within a hole
I can not fill;
That lingers
with every waking breath
Not for another,
but for a lack
of Something
I do not yet know,
That’s missing--
within;
Yet was there
at birth
A time of potential
joy which i do not remember
_________________________________________________________________________________________________
In Search of Instinct
flying back to the comb
the bees go;
an instinct,
as so i fly back to mine
still mine stands not four walls
but in lieu warmth
reform
consistency
Like the constant running tides
Flowing by
You always know will stream in the same direction
so i sit and watch
watch the bees
watch the streams
watch the leaves
craving
pining
yearning
to be one of a natural instinct
to know what’s coming
to have familiarity
_________________________________________________________________________________________________
Gone
This is just to say
I have left.
and i do not plan
on return
nonetheless,
i have lost the map
which you tucked
beneath the clutter
within my old ford’s
glove box
Forgive me
for I no longer yearn.
i will drive forever
as to be rid
of you
_________________________________________________________________________________________________
An Oath to Rot and Root
Hanging aloft–a gravitation of feed–among kin, still and tight
Unwaveringly swaying with the breeze, which once rocked the oak’s proud frame.
Malevolent claws scratch, with grizzly spite
Grasping as if by oath, or guild without name.
Torn from branch, a plummet beneath maple and moss,
Once held so high, now claimed by rot and haste,
Buried in loam, in loss,
what was thought a fable-
I lie in the hush of soil– your wild distaste.
Your beady eyes, insolent fur
A flash of hunger, blind and base.
The forest forgets what scurries blur–
Its record lost in bark and trace.
Will you remember where you've left me–
Scattered in the forest’s forgotten place
I wait for spring, for suns faint drum,
To crack the dark. To rise. To come.
And should I sprout, and reach once more,
Will you recall what you devoured before?
_________________________________________________________________________________________________
Sonet of the Surf
Upon the crest where sea and foam collide,
I lie upon the waves with transient grace,
The ocean’s pulse, my heartbeat coincides,
As sun-gleam paints a shine upon its face.
The bowling swell rises high, then falls so low,
Each winded drop, a thrill upon my flesh,
With every ride, the endless currents flow,
And call me ever out, then back with thresh.
No ropes can bind the spirit of the tide,
No seawall confines the freedom that I chase,
For here, upon the water’s elating ride,
I find my soul tied within the sea’s cool embrace.
_________________________________________________________________________________________________
A Wave’s Steady Grasp
The ocean speaks in whispers
pulling at the edges of my mind.
Salt sticks– to my skin like memories, I didn’t ask to keep
but hold anyway
Waves stretch– long fingers
over sand,
grasping; letting go
The grain brushes harshly
As such I think of home
But here,
The sun paints freckles upon my skin
–the world humming soft
I let the tide take it all–
maybe the ocean knows
How to hold things better than I
_________________________________________________________________________________________
Twilight Tides
Crimson sky melts low,
Palms sway in the evening breeze--
Waves hush the shoreline
_________________________________________________________________________________________________
Vanished Ground
I dreamt I was running, but the ground kept vanishing beneath me,
Flightful heals carried–
Upon a lack of form
Clean, unlike their normal muddy hue
What was– dissolved
No longer trailed
I can not go back
Vastness seeps behind
A shadow– swift as breath
I feared– it might overtake–
With steps–too fleet– for Death–
The horizon never answered,
Just whispered– through the sky
And I– upon that vanished ground
Ran– without asking Why
_________________________________________________________________________________________________
Illusions in Bloom
As the large array of orchids
sat upon my mothers old ledge,
I stared from below,
admiring the pinks
the purples
the violets,
I felt drawn to the colors,
the beauty
the vibrancy;
and so as the gold beams leaking from the window
reflected onto that little rusted flower pot
I watered
and watered
and watered
until the sap dirt I had so carefully created
ran down the sides of the auburn base,
because I never knew when to stop giving,
even when the winsome flowers
i had become so utterly obsessed with,
had been fake all along
___________________________________________________________________________________________
Melodies in My Veins
Struck a chord
The whole piano
Though the cord be an artery
Stretched to the beating wedge within my body
Echoing through my veins
The music prevalent
Sings a love lullaby
Soft yet alluring
I feel at rest
_____________________________________________________________________________________________
What the Fog Forgot
The fog creeps low
blanketing stones
once warm with footsteps—
now chilled
and smudged
from vanishing.
A gull loops above,
searching—
not for fish—
but for
what it forgot to remember.
I do the same.
_______________________________________________________________________________________________
Fever Tree
A fever took me,
in the month the lilacs dropped.
I dreamt I grew
from bark—
not bone—
sap in place of blood.
I woke
with petals
stuck to my skin,
and something else
_______________________________________________________________________________________________
Where the Birds Go
They flew east.
Or west.
Somewhere off the page.
Their silence
more telling
than their song.
I stayed still—
feet rooted,
fingers aching
for feathers.
You only miss them
after they’ve vanished
beyond what even trees can see.
________________________________________________________________________________________________
Portrait with Tides
You stood ankle-deep—
not in the surf,
but in forgetting.
I took your picture
just before
the water pulled
your outline
clean from sand.
The frame cracked later.
I left it that way.
Memory shouldn’t hold too tightly.
_______________________________________________________________________________________________
Grief Season
The trees let go
what I still grasp.
Yellow memories,
torn at the stem.
My hands—
full of rot
and longing—
open slowly,
only to find
I cannot plant
what never rooted.
_________________________________________________________________________________________________
The Place I Could Not Name
It looked like a field.
Smelled like ash.
Felt like July.
There,
I buried a word
I could never pronounce.
Even now,
in rain,
something rises
from beneath
my tongue—
not the word,
but the wanting.
_________________________________________________________________________________________________
How the Sky Held You
We lay in the wheat—
the stalks gold,
the air—sour with dusk.
You said the sky felt
closer
than it used to.
I agreed,
but only
because I couldn’t say
how far
you already were.
_________________________________________________________________________________________________
The Things the River Carried
My boots sank just enough
to remember—
mud cradled the weight.
The river took:
a scarf,
a bone button,
a thought I couldn’t unthink.
I gave it everything
but grief,
and even that
it almost took.
_________________________________________________________________________________________________
September, Barefoot
The grass had browned,
but still it spoke
in whispers
through the arch of my foot.
You told me
the world softens
just before it forgets.
I stayed longer than I meant,
until even my toes
smelled like leaving.
_________________________________________________________________________________________________
The Language of Ash
After the fire,
nothing made sound.
Only soot
left cursive trails
across the kitchen floor.
We swept in silence,
as if the broom
were a prayer
and the walls
a kind of cathedral
too wounded to echo.
_________________________________________________________________________________________________
Strawberries in October
We shouldn’t have found them—
but there they were:
red and low,
veined with frost.
You plucked one
with your sleeve,
pressed it to my palm
like it might vanish
in the heat
of hesitation.
I didn’t eat it.
I still remember the weight.
_________________________________________________________________________________________________
Wintering
Not snow,
but the hush before.
Even the deer stilled—
head raised
like a question.
I wanted
to answer
everything
with warmth.
But some months
are only meant
for stillness.
_________________________________________________________________________________________________
Peaches in June
Warm from the branch,
the peach split open—
not with force,
but readiness.
Juice ran sweet
down my wrist,
and I let it.
For once,
there was nothing
to clean up.
_________________________________________________________________________________________________
When We Forgot the Clock
We walked until the tide erased our tracks.
Laughed
at birds
that dove like stones.
I wore salt in my lashes
and the sun in my mouth—
and you,
with sand on your knees,
said nothing could matter
more than this.
_________________________________________________________________________________________________
How You Spoke to Flowers
You bent
to the zinnias,
as if they were old friends.
Said their names
out loud—
not botany,
but fondness.
I watched,
then followed suit.
The world
answered back
in color.