poetry & things


Early snow

The drape of blue, green vines

that hung and fell with beads of water perfume

of birds and flowers long since bloomed

Chilly winds lift feathery fronds

of red and rust on autumn ponds.

A shadow of summer 

where sandhill cranes have flown.

A fallow field hazy in its gold and brown

stiff blades and grain that brace the cold

Alas snowflakes

soft as feathers falling down.

School of thought

Who writes of me 

without pad nor pen

or scribes with sharpened knife

a belly of lies unfastened from sheath

deep that bores the core of heart?

Illusions swift they swim

in waves as shoals

cold and blue

spawned from

tiny minnows.

Cold moon of winter

Early in the dark hours 

where no birds have flown 

before the flicker and hum of stars 

silence where daylight sweeps away 

the cold occluded moon 

amid a barren velvet white

lights a silhouette of trees

iced and caked in winter.

Wild orchids

In the rain forest we heard the first birds

stood amid the cooling spectral fog 

walked upon the spongy ground

the layered earth of moss and mud

along the path and further on 

came streaming rays of sun

that silver lit the wild paphiopedilums 

and smiling back toward the sky

stood a shine of silken stars.

Green in these hills

I am green in these hills

I wait all spring long

wait through grey rains

too early for summer flowers

I dream of sun fields brightest yellow

my heart a wild field that burns

my lips, parched paper seeking water

desolate in this desert

your lips now merely 

a mirage.



it was felt

in heart

it came sharp 

a knife

a hammer

deep the ache

the numb

that tries to escape

the resurrection of the fire.

In the woods a weeping bird

All the blue of day slipped quietly away

the drowsy lake waved the sun to sleep

with glints of gold and blue in steely colors.

At the closing of day 

the blackened pines faded away

a lone call was faintly heard

a sadness, the weeping of a bird.

Dark sky

In this moment I am water, grey rain

I cry with trees and all the streams running.

Fog and clouds, the twist of branches overhead

my mind a loop concentrically swirling

a trick – the swoop and slip

the black and falling birds

the scream of skies unraveling.

Too far my lover

Tree, I have come to shelter and with the rain to weep

I am soaked, barefoot with mud running through

soft the moss, cool and cold

to soothe my heart that bleeds.

Our waxing nights of love and moons

now fallow a field that burns

damned our hollow bed

of haunting, silent screams

too soon the fiery devil

too far my lover

the spring.

Half moon day

Some days, this desert

under spells of sun and moon

think, I brood in fields of agave blue

the angled sun blares sharp to parch

to dry, to crackle leaves to dust

tricky this prickly pear cactus

bitter thorns laden with

impossible blood sweet fruit

while high and seen out the corner

of my eye, the half moon smiles

beguiled by the sun.


Fiddlehead fern rooted in earth

warmth of sunshine gives birth to your unfurling

green forest smiles as you reach toward stars

you are smiling like moonlight

shining back through trees.

Desert day

On days like this

cool, with little winds

desert birds forage for sticks

they build nests perched in cactus

some build green in palo verde trees

always I think of baby birds in spring

hatchlings, the fledglings that fly

I travel far beyond the noise of towns

watch the movement of cooling clouds

the roundness of rain upon the ground

the grey banked scurrilous skies

of hurried birds, their silhouettes before a storm

daisies that close, cold amid the stones

beneath where snakes and lizards go

slither and crawl in this landscape of saguaros

and I, ever tethered can only dream to fly.

The forest green and blues

All day long with clouds and birds

greens and blues moving through the water

I wish my fingers were water color crayons

to paint these scenes on leaves of paper

to capture water drops on stones, lighter, darker

the sky, the soft rain I taste

all the ways I lived this day.

In the morning to wake up

deep and breathing in

an ancient forest.

Blue of nights

Because our days are straying

and though the nights are spellbound

we are only ever falling away

only ever coming and going.

Near the blue banked shores

we are anchored, bobbing and breathing

the clouds are merely sailing ships

waves of swirling skies.

Upon the tide the moon rips and pulls

stars come to swoon and soothe

floating in the night lands

plush and indigo blue.

This sleep

In an earth bound dream

found bare and green

blue between moss and splendor

cool and cold, our hands and toes

wild eyed through the mud we climb

these darkened steps

beyond the stars

returning home

to rest our souls

brief a dream before 

the long sleep of

our rebirth.

Tlingit Man

In Klawock stands seven totems

and a madman, chanting under ebon skies,

embedded in cedar wood, he is connecting two worlds

a master carver, in a language without words.

Born of the raven clan, 

he is tracing ancestry in the wood

seeks the ways of wolf and bear.

Born of water, amid the realms of earth and air

his spirit runs with salmon.

Wild Atlantic

In Ireland, sea swept and green

against the wind, this mast salt lipped and bent

by the mad skipping white caps

farther out – the gray fading ships

closer in the tiny bobbing boats

amid misty fog they float

nets and fish, heavy they list

the watery wilds

toward home.

Early morning

In the sweet of early morning

and only for a few precious moments

I thought of nothing at all

I stared blank at the four walls

in a state between awake and dreaming

and only until the startle of the first bird singing,

the wind playing in the wild branches.

I saw the sun clinging to roofs and trees

light traipsing through the garden lilies

I heard the chirp and groan of frogs

newly green, all the unfurling fronds

and from the broad leaves, the dew

fell sparkling in rivulets

and drank the carpet moss

softly green and splendorous.

Northern ponds

In the northlands,

damp and drowning

come rains of spring,

and suns that sing

before the buds tightly spun

unfurl in worlds of greening.

In the shallow ponds

of ice now gone

are tiny minnows


Night and truth

In the evening comes the dim light, the swooping away of day,

the blue, gray clouds, the turbulent air of wild birds

small specs, black and disappearing.

After awhile only quiet,

and then a certain silence settles in

it moves like fog, alongside the moon

it comes cold, blanketing the soul

a depth of space unknown

a well of darkness, undiscovered

the losing of this day, this light

and in the long, lingering hours

dwelling in the dark caved places

touching the soul and flooding the heart

the crashing waves will come

to break one wildly apart.

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