↑

blackberries

Tuesday, October 15, 2019 β‹Ÿ ∫ ≓ β‰— β€» ≓ ∫ β€» ≓ β‹—

Someone should tend the blackberries out front
(they don't need anything, it's just nice to think of them)
and fill the hummingbird feeders while you're there,
three parts water to sugar, very important to get that right.
make sure to pay the bill for the dance hall,
(is it still there?) on the first of the month.

The neighbors across the street have my tool set.
Try to get that back, especially the hammer. The nails don't matter.
Throw everything else away, none of it's valuable.
Except that watercolor from the beach, wherever it got to.
I should have left it in the shed, where it belongs.
Do you remember what he wrote?
"I love this β€” I love making it β€” and finding things, all by myself."
That's what I did today, with a few of these blackberries.

ticking, whirring

Tuesday, October 01, 2019 β‹Ÿ ∫ ≓ β‰— β€» ≓ ∫ β€» ∫ ≓

A great ticking, whirring from the room below,
where the couple lived, the one with flowers by their windows
a syncronous vibration, the smell of oil and steam when you open the door
figures carrying wrenches, instruments, lit by filaments
inspecting, adjusting, building a mechanical beast, an engine breathing
with pipes, hydraulics filling the room, running up and through the floor,
the ceiling, the windows. Gears holding gears interlock, the door is closed
and you fall asleep.

hard winter soil

Sunday, September 15, 2019 β‹Ÿ ∫ ≓ β‰— β€» ∫ β‰— β€» ≓ β‹—

Long ago, hard winter soil was overturned,
and twisting roots grabbed at a bundle lowered to the earth.

The roots whispered about it, proudly
coveting a secret
tantalizing, unwrapping it
under cold winter soil, under trees
that are home to the half-formed creatures in blue speckled eggs.

something following you

Sunday, September 01, 2019 β‹Ÿ ∫ ≓ β‰— β€» ∫ β‰— β€» ∫ ≓

You hear something following you ―
long, ashen, rain-soaked hair

what do you want dog?
here it comes, tounge lulling,
as if it knew you it's entire life
and found you hiding behind a tree.

it curls up and presses at your feet,
sniffing for morsels
guarding you from anything bad.
good dog.

verily, wearily

Thursday, February 07, 2019 β‹Ÿ ∫ ≓ β‰— β€» ∫ β‹Ÿ β€» ∫ β‹ˆ

The brink isn't the chasm,
Its the last piece of land before falling in,
and the first handhold after climbing out.
It's the edge of an edge of an edge.

Who are the most free? It asks above.
Who are the most free? It asks below.
Those with me, it replies.
Existing so happily, Merrily so.

It doesn't take anything to be on one side of it.
But it takes everything to be on the other.

wonderbird

Tuesday, January 01, 2019 β‹Ÿ ∫ ≓ β‰— β€» ∫ ≓ β€» ∫ ≓

Have you seen the wonderbird
    flying through the trees above
    collecting twigs for it's nest

Have you heard the wonderbird 
    cry out from the cold
    out among the frozen night

Have you held the wonderbird
    with feathers cracked and twisted
    from the howling wind outside

It only comes out after a storm has
    broken the branches off the pines and firs
    and simply carries them away to it's nest.

Have you seen the wonderbird
    flying through the trees above
    like it did in the past

Watch out

Sunday, June 03, 2018 β‹Ÿ ∫ ≓ β‹Œ β€» ∫ ∴ β€» ∫ ∻

I'm thinking I can see it
    I've almost got it β€”

Ah! There! you see?
    There it is β€”

See how fragile it is?
    Can you see the sunlight through it? β€”

See how it jumps and jitters and β€” oh!
    We've lost it again.

    Oh well.

    ...

    You know? β€”

I'm beginning to think
    it wasn't so special after all.

Maybe you'll find it again,
    maybe you'll enjoy it,

    and that's good.

blood-red

Sunday, April 22, 2018 β‹Ÿ ∫ ≓ β‹Œ β€» ∫ β‰ˆ β€» β‹Ÿ β‹Ÿ

Ravenous blood-red worms convulse on end in the murky field,
    as if boiled on a hotplate.
    Seizing the rolling fog that looks like steam.
    Making fleshy wet slapping noises as stomachs turn.

There's few else around, a student passing on the trail behind,
    looking in my direction; but not at the field, nor the blood-red worms.

They're gone, look back. Pick a branch, dry and hollowed. Approach and reach forward,
    forward, forward.

black water

Thursday, February 01, 2018 β‹Ÿ ∫ ≓ β‹Œ β€» ∫ β‹Ÿ β€» ∫ ≓

You're black water
spilled in everyone's drinks

Mad white water
boiling beneath their feet

Say blood water
and drown our aching teeth

far away in the night sky

Wednesday, August 30, 2017 β‹Ÿ ∫ ≓ β‹ˆ β€» ∫ β‹Œ β€» ∻ ∫

Far away in the night sky
past the moon and past our stars
out among the oldest & coldest corners of the Universe
exists a lone, small star.
And around that star
orbits a lone, small planet.
On this planet lies a tiny creature,
no bigger than a pebble, who sleeps day in and day out
for every day of the year, save one.

While it sleeps, it dreams of a far-away
world where strange beings make music and tell stories
and dance together at night and work and play together in the day.
In the tiny creature's dreams, this far-away world has colors
and sights and even smells unlike anywhere else
in the whole universe.

And on the one day it wakes,
this tiny creature crawls out of it's burrow
out onto the open planet to stretch it's small legs,
& enjoys feeling the light of the lone, small star on it's body. 
And when it's time to go to sleep again,
one of the last things it does is ask the stars
to send their warmest light to that strange, far-away planet
and to the strange, beautiful beings that call that planet home.

In one of the many enchanting coincidences of the Universe,
the number of times this creature has asked the stars to send
their warmest light is exactly the number of times
the stars twinkle in the sky of that strange, far-away planet.

So every time you see a star flicker when you look into the night sky,
you can feel a little warmer knowing you're sharing the light of a little creature
dreaming it's warm dreams out among the stars.  

pebbles & shells

Thursday, June 01, 2017 β‹Ÿ ∫ ≓ β‹ˆ β€» ∫ ∴ β€» ∫ ≓

I remember you playing at the beach
    when you were five years old
looking for pebbles & shells
        left behind by the waves
The wind made funny shapes with your hair
    and carried you along the shore
as the ocean glistened around you
    excited at meeting you for the very first time.

Night Terrors (afraid of the water)

Sunday, January 01, 2017 β‹Ÿ ∫ ≓ β‹ˆ β€» ∫ ≓ β€» ∫ ≓

You told to me to look towards the north
From wence I would find
    my only course

I would not look,I was frightened so
Of the beings that sing
    from the depths below

'Neath the ice and in the black,
    they whisper behind your back
Turn around and you will see,
    naught but the cold staring back at thee

So you must never venture forth
    into these lands,
For they belong to the
     shivering, desolate, sorry man.

alabaster white

Tuesday, November 01, 2016 β‹Ÿ ∫ ≓ ∴ β€» ≓ ≓ β€» ∫ ≓

A Monster approaches my home,
    beckoning me to let it in.
    Whispering to let it in.
A Monster approaches my home,
    and i know not what to do.
    and i know not what to do.

It is outside my window now,
    looking in, looking in
    at me what shall i do.
The Monster opens the window
    reaching in, for me, for me
    i have nowhere to go, nowhere to go

It climbs inside, filling the room
    i am alone, i cannot escape
    the monster that is here with me
I shut my eyes and cry i feel it closen
    it feels my face and opens my eyes
    so i must see this monstrosity

See this monstrosity as it breaks my bones
    and loosens my blood so warm
So it spills and drops and flees (flows)
    away from this monstrous form.

"Look at me" it hisses, "look at what you have done"
    "all that you never were
        and all that you could have become!"

i am broken, i am broken but the monster drags me still,
    the monster carries me outside,
    the window closes, i will never be back inside
The monster releases me, drops me to the earth,
    i do not see where it goes
    i do not see where it goes.

Outside snow falls, covering my body still (when shall i die)?
    the snow falls, upon my body still (but when shall i die)?

i know not how long i lie, lying for night to fall

I look to my home one last time,
    one last time before i die.

There i am, back at home, warm and safe
    i know not what happens
    i know not what happens
And still i think i will be warm and safe
    for all the time to come
    for all the time to come

How could you not see what happens
    run away you fool!
    you fool! run away

outside i rise, outside i rise,
outside i crouch, bent over and jagged
    i approach
    i approach

Looking down from a slumber

Monday, October 10, 2016 β‹Ÿ ∫ ≓ ∴ β€» ≓ ∫ β€» ≓ ∫

The wolves run heavy over my broken body
their claws cut deep as they
    run to their cubs, their caves to sleep.
What lovely creatures, I think
    as I find my nightly home.
That bless'd, starry bed,
        look at how they roam!

deep in the heart of la valle nueve

Thursday, September 01, 2016 β‹Ÿ ∫ ≓ ∴ β€» ∫ β‰— β€» ∫ ≓

    Deep in the heart of La Valle Nueve, in the year 1640, on the eve of the winter solstice, La Negra fell--mortally wounded. She carried herself to the base of an oak and leaned against it's strong roots. Around her were twenty-eight Blancos--all of them dead--and all of them wearing the ashen robes of their order. Crimson crosses adorned their chests, made with the dyes of The La'Crocha flower, and sewn with great care. Their faces were turned down, into the dry soil and grass surrounding the large oak.

    A young boy from the small village nearby peered from far away towards the scene. He crouched behind a fallen tree for an hour before approaching. As he walked slowly to the oak tree, he looked at the bodies lying on the earth, white and red. His eyes raised slightly and he stared at the black body slumped against the roots. The boy looked at La Negra and La Negra looked at the boy for many minutes. Breathing showllow, and heavy, La Negra looked away towards the valley below, and the small village visible only by the roof of the church reaching above the trees. Her breathing slowed, untill their was no breath left.

    The boy stood silently, 20 paces away. As soon as La Negra died, he bent down to the ground a picked up a stone and hurrled it at the black body--striking it in the chest and bouncing off away from the oak. He scrambled for another stone and flung it, missing the body. As he hurridely grabbed another, tears fell his eyes and soaked his cheeks. His nose ran and his cheeks blushed as he cried out and cursed La Negra, striking her in the shoulder.

    When the boy's aunt found him, he was curled into himself, wrapped in his own arms and lying on the ground by the body of La Negra. She picked him up slowly, wiping the tears and dirt off his face. She looked around at the Blancos and whispered something small and quiet. She then quickly walked away from the oak, as the light began to fall beyond the western mountains. Never once did she let her eyes fall on the black body nestled in the roots. The boy had exhausted himself, and did not wake from his slumber until he was once again home.

dance around the maypole

Sunday, April 10, 2016 β‹Ÿ ∫ ≓ ∴ β€» ∫ β‰ˆ β€» ≓ ∫

Dance around the maypole young doe
    join the flowers & lights & singing
        watch the dresses flutter in bloom
            and the hair swim in the warm summer air.

It is nighttime, young doe
    & and you lie alone on the earth
        like a leaf released and
            ready to sleep under
                snow.

Are you asleep now young doe?
    Do you breathe a different time
        than the more lively and
            alive? Look! They are in
                bloom together!

While you, young foolish doe,
    lie alone in a different time β€”
        after the harvest, after the
            end of all this, ready to
                sleep.

So sleep now, sleep now young dow,
    if you do not wish to dance around
        the maypole, then sleep. & so
            ready yourself for the snowfalls
                of winter to bury you
                    while those above
    sleep in warm homes
      in eachother's arms
        after the dance
        in the summer air.

So long as we are warm

Tuesday, February 02, 2016 β‹Ÿ ∫ ≓ ∴ β€» ∫ β‹Ÿ β€» ∫ β‹Ÿ

There is a measured degree of success
    in reading a book in an empty library
    with the ghosts of the authors as one's company.

Sing me a lullaby my sweet authors
Dance with me as I
    dance in your worlds for
        the time being.

Show me that life isn't scary, isn't to
    be feared but to be
        remembered in the writings and photos of the day.

Let us waltz and let us be friends without time to be
    remembered, with time to be cherised
May we watch the shadows and the candles play
    out constellations of human warmth, in an age of
        mosaic beauty and prompt excuses for song.

"So long as we are warm
    and so long as we are happy
    Never let me go, because without your arm
    entwined in mine,
        I would freeze and I would fall."

beyond your maw

Monday, February 01, 2016 β‹Ÿ ∫ ≓ ∴ β€» ∫ β‹Ÿ β€» ∫ ≓

My last love stepped off the bus and onto the walk
among so many I did not know
whom I recognized not


And yet what lives do they lead that I miss out on?
with their own losses and triumphs
are they heroes or not?


The answer should be obvious, last love, like you
like a tempest that freezes the skin
and you remember not


the touch of summer on tender bodies, in the wake
of waves and seabreeze that so solemnly
wash the flesh and not


The mind, the raking of your voice, last love, leads
and beckons to the end, away from all
yet these others know not


The danger of you, last love, nor I their last loves,
shall we keep these secrets to ourselves
forever safe: trust not


the ones who reveal any minuate of your cruelty
and you will walk past, like a tiger
with enough meat for now.

Wow! (the golden man)

Friday, January 01, 2016 β‹Ÿ ∫ ≓ ∴ β€» ∫ ≓ β€» ∫ ≓

Look! Look! There goes the man, the golden man,
  the man so good at everything,
See how he walks and the world moves,
  hear him sigh and the world cry
          The man!
            The man!
He goes to work as the greatest,
  the greatest at what, you ask?
Why, at everything boy!
  Aye, there he goes, away from us,
into the sacred morrow,
wearing the pride of our children.

Motherland

Friday, January 01, 2016 β‹Ÿ ∫ ≓ ∴ β€» ∫ ≓ β€» ∫ ≓

I've forgotten the words to your song,
  the one you would sing me to sleep with,
    like lullabies of a yesteryear
      plucked from vinyeards from across the shore
        a shore, a land I may never see.

They tell me I do not belong there,
  the people from your home.
    "I was not born there," they say
      but you were.
      And I was born from you
      So why may I not return
        to the home
          of my home?

And so your melodies are of a different key,
  your paintings of other hues,
    And yet still I want to listen and to see all there is
      because they belong to you.

Share with me your letters, your dances too,
  teach them I am not so different
    so I may be like
        so I may be with
            you.

who are you?

Tuesday, December 01, 2015 β‹Ÿ ∫ ≓ β‹— β€» ≓ β‹Ÿ β€» ∫ ≓

Who are you?
I am the one man battlefield
        the hunter and hunted
        together at last
                till Dusk we part
                and Dawn we meet.
While the siege I seek
        for the harrowed soldier
comes at last
        in the hallowed smolder
                of a time begotten
        and a people forgotten.
And so all that is left
        all that may be found
is the sole and weary’d
        beaten
                beaten
                        down.

dancing all around

Tuesday, November 10, 2015 β‹Ÿ ∫ ≓ β‹— β€» ≓ ≓ β€» ≓ ∫

We are clockwork you and I
clockwork until the day we die.


Watch us dance and fly across the room in a uniformed coordination
Ticking so elegantly; arcs of pronounced stand - ard - i - za - tion
We begin and end with a tick and a tock of the clock
    on the wall
        until
                we
                    fall.


But the (fundamental) difference between you and I
    are
            our
                    hands.
The hands that have given us so much pain
the hands that skip and wane
and fall behind tempo
of our perfectly timed tango and oh!
    how
            that
                    burns.

Why is this? It is because you are the minute and I am the hour.
We meet in the middle -- O! how sour --
    four and twenty times a day
        and yet only agree twice (and I say:) (in our way.)
You are so much faster than I, in all walks,
    in how you talk to others
        and balk at brothers
            and galk at lovers.
    O! O. O...
A tick and a tock and then we drop.
    A tick
            and
                   a
                        tock.

Let us stop for now, and enjoy what time we have.

Time and Space

Sunday, May 31, 2015 β‹Ÿ ∫ ≓ β‹— β€» ∫ β‹— β€» ∻ ≓

Tell me about the times
    when we would stay up late to watch
        the stars
    and we’d feel special for having found eachother
        when the lights above were so separate
        and the air so cold and distant
    Yet here we lay, in eachother’s tiredness and embrace
        making time for one another
            because we enjoyed our company
                above all else.
Tell me about the places
    we would go
        visiting towns and lights entirely foreign
        just to feel the sameness we’d grown
            the familiar, the lasting and unchanging.
And when we grew old and tired, that’s what
    you remained to me--though all the fears and nights
        and troubles and stars
    strewn over the changing skies


You were my home
You were my lasting.