First Sunset at Sea As soon as Sunstepped one massive,gilded ankleinto the sea,Moon and Venuspeeped out their headsand we all watched,wondering howOcean didn’t smolder; how this frail, mortal heart didn’t spark, thenburst, into flame
Reminiscing Coarsegold, California 1937 – for Sam Peckinpah There will come a day, of course,when the wood dies down,when the hearth sits heavy with cold,when the cord turns into a simple sweep of old bark,when the porch itself becomes pitted and looseand its boards beg to be smoke.We were born lean.We lean toward the lean.How
In the Sweat Lodge I must confess the Whale,my totem which appeared on my quest.Not what I expected. I did not expect anything. I thought in humor –perhaps serpent, mouse, fox. Only one fourth of my beating Heart listened, yet there he appeared. I know not this mammoth mammal, this elusive, secretive soul. It must
Deconstruction I want to slough off my body.Pluck out my crooked eyes, roll themLike pretty marbles to my children.I want to spit out my crooked teeth, store themIn a moss-lined wooden box.My hair will be blown away like dandelionsSnagged on holly for bird nests;My limbs left to melt in hollowsMy skin pressed between linen and
Hauntings Final call at the barOne of the last to leave,And this old bloke and meTalking about hauntings.Not rattling poltergeists,We saw all those off, early on.When you remember somethingYou wish hadn’t happened;A shame that comes upon youIn the dark, leaves you cringing – A cold something walking through youThat’s haunting.He drank his beer,His sorrow pooling
Lyra and Existentialism Bouncing off the kitchen tilesYour little, bare feet crave sensation.Disdainer of footwear – nothingWill cut you off from the earth,What you can learn from itThrough your toes.Everything new, you seize,So when I told you, me and your mummyUsed to make our tea like this, together,Years ago, before you were born, you stopped,Mid
Dryad; Awakening Shagbark HickoryForever non-finito, glimpsedat best in a supple torsothat seems, out of the corner ofmy eye, to shimmy in the wind,in the sun, in the moonlight. But of course,as soon as I turn toward the tree trunkto confirm such, there is nothingbut a morbid stillness. Its flaringbark seems always about to beshed. At
Stick Tree Black Swamp DryadFrom such I am made. My localturf a black swamp atopa geological midden,braced by moraines and beach ridges,where ground down things gatheredto grind each other, pulverizingthe lot into clay paste.Here the last ice apocalypsecollapsed into a river,thawing what had been tundra,the melt slicing through the till,silt, and clast bits trapped in
Dryad, End of Season Self-indentured, trapped in a schemeof my own devising, I am bothmeans of production and product.Shackled to this earth’s factory floor,I should be resigned, yet I twistand writhe as others have, convincedthat I can break free of myself,that a summer spent getting sunand water, in mining the soil’s riches,might yield something other
At the Field’s Edge Dryad: SentinelI doze at the frontier of my life.It takes a lack of wind to wake mefrom the dream of myself. Fog keepsclosing in, wrapping me in everthicker layers. I have stood hereso long that I have sunk ankle deepinto the earth. I can no longerwiggle my toes. My fingertips markthe
