Wednesday, November 21, 2018


sun beguiles
bark of maple warms the hand as
it lingers
blue ombré sky painted last night by wild geese
as they flew at a 45 degree angle to mercury
fields pale golden gleaning in light from a thousands moons
hours strike
dogs bite
trains whistle in the night
we pause
we breathe
holding to our precious sorrows while
chanting primrose spells to alchemize pain to joy
all the while we hold the stone that turns dust to dust
and tastes of home
scars tighten
bones lighten
the journey spiked and forgotten
taunt with the weight of days
burn we must
to breathe
to  know
to always trust the
sun's shadow

patchouli room

laying in wait
for the potion to take 
a light tender hold of your heart 
at six thousand feet 
the atmosphere's weak 
and the lover abandons his part  
this grey morning gloom 
all the pain in this room 
this high country fragile fresh start 

patchouli room 
ghosts autumn tomb 
the fire fails to spark
love, please come to bed 
get naked instead
of eviscerating our fractured cold stars 
masks are just futile 
surrender is beautiful 
this room will treasure our scars 

what should have been ours 
dissolved to salt stars 
no embers spark to fire
on tongues sharp with dust
our demons breathe rust
expectations brier
thru iced windows glaze
deer come out to graze 
we surrender our bricked-up desire 

patchouli room 
'neath silvered frost moon
trust tumbles & falls to bed 
fear slips to the side 
solace abides
the potion was ours for the taking

golden day dawns
intimacy bonds
pine wraps around crisp bones
stolen locket of time
partings solitary rhymes
with words 
... the spell is breaking


you tease me with need, apples & emptiness
struggling to hardwire
lounging there in yellow silk boxers 
against your father's blueprint 
aging with remorse 
without awareness

i hate football

and struggle to understand my own fragility

what is it that binds & stretches to accommodate our twisted, wounded selves
acceptance comes with a cost; 
a kiss tasting of popcorn & fresh red peppers
a blizzard whorls beyond our walls 
and if you would open just long enough
into blue eyes 14 thousand feet deep
and rich with wisdom & words and muscles hard
our bones are old and speak of chasms of mirth & merit
replete with lovers, summers & wine 

why the goodbye
why walls of blue-glass brick
only to find the hole again 

altars of divine care & memory to what was & what could be 
sparked by flannel warmth & distance spanned by


Tuesday, November 20, 2018

tapping the amber

resin lies waiting
pooled against the forest floor
if i indulge the curiosity
the residue sticks in my dreams
rests against my spine when woke
stirring thrumming drumming
incessant yearn to feel something true
i will stand with back against bark
smelling the coming snow

for ...


Hollowness is only hollowness when viewed from within the hollow
When beside it, it shimmers with a ripeness found only in
the sun
most often found in shades of blue & green
though gold sometimes hides deep in its pockets
lay your ear against its tautness


do you hear the ocean? the pulling note from a cello?
snow falling into the tree tops?

maybe the soundtrack from Goldfinger
or your life
lay your hand upon the hollow and snap down a beat
a ring of rhythm surprises
holding a tone & a thread of story

hollowness holds everything when one stands from without


we phoenix a million times
rising rising to face the blue
a blue unnamed by those that name
winds tempered by structures both
real & imagined
matters not this rising
matters not this wind
matters not this obstacle

only the blue 

Monday, November 19, 2018

November 19th

the morning leans open
mild as an April
yet here we sit in mid-November
it should be brisk--snap--brittle--chill

but it is this

this portal of spring stranded against the softest blue blue sky
pressed between the panes of summer & frost
forty-eight degrees and rising
a rolling south breeze teasing leaves golden brown
everything is a golden brown ... amber hued
the blue jay circling the hackberry tree knows the truth
knows the magic of this brilliant morning
who knew there could be this shade of blue

mild as an April