poetry & things



I will wake

very soon or later

blue in the water or sky

sleep in downy feathers

plummet, I fall or fly

what is real, speak and feel

awaken from sleep

now the time


I die.


For this bird

these woven feathers into web

of silken sage your home.

Silent you sleep, soon slips

the shell and falls the day

the evening of your life

with monsoon winds

your wings of flurry flutter

tiny flash barley seen

heart of ruby

feathers of


Tonight’s storm

Tonight the wind

the pouring rain through trees

hiss and whistle of kettle

water poured for tea

the lashing winter willows

this coal, dark storm that blinds

and hides away your face

and any trace of moon.

Thinking of spring

a million birds singing

the wind warm as sun

all the branches glowing

we wait the buds to come

the bending leafy willows

brush the melting pond

of blue green water

beneath the cold dark earth

roots encased and safe

breathe green where

flowers form.

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 barren velvet white

stands 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


Winter park

In this park there are birds atop ice cakes

stiff mittened kids, cold nosed and half froze

they slide on paths of glass, toward home.

A small stream cuts through this place,

black water, humming with coots and ducks.

Long toothed icicles waiting to impale the earth,

beneath our feet, we crack and shatter tiny frozen ponds,

revealing muddied blades of grass, green as in summer.

A myriad of birds in the sun, come to puff and quiver,

but soon the mountain clouds will come to shroud

the day, the sky, so cold, a frost in grey and silver.

Wild ocean

Wild ocean

With crying seagulls, salt tears of spraying seas

this rugged coast of obelisk ancient stones

black blowing reign of squall and fury

the swallowing of sand and shore

tonight a ghost, a murmur of moon

the pitch grows ever darker

fretful wrath of wild ocean

awaits the calm to come,

the bright startle of


Moving through the water

Moving through the water

Fallen leaves, mud and trees

roots, willowy dark and deep

tangled and moving through the water

legs and feet, the moon-green heat

August’s fiery stars, the red blood of mars

fretful season of fires and floods.

When I was wild

I think it quite strange living here, walled by this house

when I was wilder than now, I lived in nature

stalking birds and pollen laden, blooming things

always my toes in sands or hot footed in summer

I was in love with the sky, no matter the weather

in storms I hid beneath branching cedars

sleeping on mossy pillows, in the woods of my backyard

I never gave much thought to houses then, I only went there

to sleep or eat and waited to leave again

waited for an inkling of sun to warm the cold grass

spent days climbing trees, red plums and cherries

I imagined that’s how life would always be,

living outdoors under the sun or clouds

wet with rain, always picking flowers.

Conundrum moon

In the trees, through the leaves came crescent shadows

tiny silhouetted scooped moons upon the ground

without sound, black the round disappearing sun

in ways it came highlighting the shining of souls

and felt around the globe, shined like gold, like silver

like our shimmering days of lakes wet in rain forest waters

you and I on a path coming together, moving further and further

traveling through woods and smokes, traveling home

with a head full of smoke and eyes that cannot see me

my love I am truly in the fire.


The heat and scorch

a black singed wound

the blues and bruise

only a gaping hole

salt stung to close

still a heart in order to mend

must not contract

nor defend.

Reflection 3

Salt rim and cake

we ate and drank

drowned and sank

our souls and bodies

wet washed in this lake

too late to wonder

we wandered

another day


Memory of the shore

When I was a bird, a crow

black winged upon the shore and sunning

in the tangle of days, salt and seaweed wrapped

watching oceans seep and move between the rocks,

the light jump away between the moss and blackened cracks

I waited for the warmth of afternoon, the reveal of seas retreating

watching waves, oysters and clams, the rolling of pebbled sands

hours in the drift, sifting shores for broken mollusk shells

all of my days dredging between storms, in love

with the sea and sky.

In the rain

Like water running, strange requiem

things I can’t recall, though deep in soul feel

these skies, these burning lives

we are wild in the fields

only a sun, a storm, the rain

passing by.


In death, perhaps we are like water

making our way ever deeper from sand and sky.

Maybe we fly, linger and hover awhile

and the dream of becoming a bird is real.

Maybe we are stars floating oceans of night skies

moving toward divine light in swooping waves

pushing upwards through embryonic waters

spilling over the soul

again and again.

Ocean home

Living on the ocean as I do, I hunt fish and mollusks

my kin are otters and whales, wide eyed we dive

the night waves, soft in lullabies

in a sea dream, starlit and moon cradled

my lips are sparkling and salt flecked

my eyes wide awake from sleep

in a myriad of visions these sea colors

all my days, swum in a variance of blues

oceans deep and streaked in silver shoals

the day skies fade and die, into nights

plush and indigo blue.


From mud walled homes

these remnants come, artifacts of shell and bone

leather shoes and deerskin coats

woolen blankets and woven rugs,

baskets for storing grain and corn.

Grinding stones and sun bleached bones

antiquities and memories found in fields of sand,

necklace beads of finest hammered silver

now forgotten and lost, and too the river’s water.

Came a sorrowful war with bullet guns

that pierced the heart of every man

no match for shooting arrows.

With wings

In spring with green buds

I dream of flowers, the silk petals of your lips

the flashing of butterfly lashes

soft upon my flesh

kisses flitting soft winged

across my face

in a myriad of colors

we’ll create.


In this city house amid the screaming sirens,

here in the whirling of paper and garbage

I hear the banging of trucks over broken roads,

low rider stereos, their deep boomed, throaty moans.

Here in this strange forest that flies with cactus birds

alluringly they sing in secret symphonies,

before the howling chorus of coyote calls,

the rising magnetic moon, a mountain flower

pink blushed that fully blooms.

Northern spring

Clear water, drinking in – earth soaked

purple violets and fiddle headed ferns

cold bulbs and garden tubers, buds and flowers unfurl.

This mating clash of birds, their chirpy squawks and words,

an aromatic lilac trance, a variance of blue.

Grass and toes, cool and cold

northern winds of spring.

Music school

I play guitar unpolished

red rust of my finger tips, bleeding

no school for this, still I wish

I’d somehow gone or sang with

my mouth unbound and loud

sang like a deep well of bells

that rang each day and I had come to listen.

At night

In bars wandering amid the metal and cages,

amid the loud banging of voices, dull as broken bells

rung from the sloshing of drinks, in shirts red inked with wine.

Smoulder and fog, cigarettes now drawn and dead

down this cold alley of vagrants painting nightly,

wildly until dawn.

This field

I cannot write anything, the way my heart tells it

soft in murmurs or echoing loudly as it does

cannot drift the way I’d like, floating freely as dandelion

or milkweed seeds wild in these fields.

I hear words, like arrows piercing in.

I feel shocks and waves that come

to cover me up, disappearing

facing the jangled places head on

letting go of over again

my fears, only transient clouds

and after the washing rains

the birds – singing, flying.

St. George island

In Florida

the beach cut in half

cool sun baked cake, one side blue

the other side white in swirling sands

and after the waves of tide left

birds stamped footprints

webbed and wet

that disappeared in the afternoon sun

sand art lost, and windswept.


Black, hollow world of sky – starless

alone in this darkened room

dreaming of the star showers that fell

last night from your lips



This cemetery of broken stones, the gray hanging trees

of moss draping down to the crab grass and leafy lawns.

This silent field of sticks and bones, of breath long gone

tiny grave of an infant child one day old.

Behind this black rusty fence, wrought iron and bent

circling round the dead, a strange cage we’d like to escape

forgetting our fate, we smile and pretend.

Winter and spring branches

These winter trees

cold and shouldering winds

their bending branches unhinge

falling limbs crash and break the snow

further still a secret world of mud and bulbs

that in the spring blooms of tulips and violet mossy lawns

and too, the sun that comes to warm and fills with green the tree arms

this wooded home that breathes with sheltering birdsong.


Outside my door a cawing crow

of blackened wings and indigo

delivered by night’s shivering storm.

The wind and winter’s howling call,

scattered nests and down the feathers fall.

Crack of limbs, cold and bare branched

mesquite leaves and needles spiral to the ground.

In a swooping field he flies into the tallest pines

deep and slow, the trees creak

wild in tones of cello.

The desert, rain drenched

The afternoon sky with its wine dark clouds

red blushed and blue, moments before the rain drenching greys

the scurrilous skies, the black winged silhouettes that fly

amid the cactus trees, thick with chaparral

a total reconstruction of sunny soft memories

this cold tumbling storm that moves overhead

to form, this desert raining lake.

Water Protectors

We are walking, we are chanting, we are praying

though many before us were killed and maimed

we stand in peace, we are in love with the sky,

the earth, the water, the father and the mother

We stand together, we watch the river flood

through the years spilling over with human blood

Praying peace and clean water for our earth mother

praying one day all will come to know

the intricate connection we have to each other

realize how we harm ourselves

when we harm another

We cry with the sky tears

water protectors in the river

Locked door

Someone’s at the door, he wants to know me

I am lonely as a thousand dark winters

and because of the deep blue of you,

the wrecked sea of you and me

and much to my chagrin

I will not let him in.

Into the invisible

Like stars fading into the blue of day

the blackness that somewhere slips away

how the sun fire burns clouds into the air

the river that wends through lands, a stream no longer seen

a winding path, a deer trail I follow, the sun shadows that swallow

the light of this sycamore forest, where time is somehow lost

amid the trees of blue and silver contrast

beyond these woods, my eyes follow

birds, that fly into the sky hills

far and disappearing.

Cold of November

Now these clouds, the cold mean greys

sideways rain, the north lands I remember

the drowning air of smoke and fire

nights traveling the dark road to your home

the black and spark of stars we watched

through the night before the killing dawn

before the fog, the cold that held us down

the clinch and grasp, the slow stinging wasp

the allure and hum of bees

the honey meadows of scattered petals

only a fleeting summer – we gathered

now swallowed in the autumn thunder,

the bruising cold of November.

Meeting on Dragoon road

In the evening watching blue, pink clouds

birds and clouds whirling round my head

they fly past the place where you live

I long to fly with them, maybe tomorrow

fly to some far off place I’ve never been

but tonight I go with the stars and moon

only starlit, I drive the dark road past Dragoon

and can never explain the magnetic force that pulls me to you.

Lost in the night clouds

It’s no good this round and round my love

they’ll be no surrender only the smoulder of fire

only a dream, the beautiful fusing

of we two in the star showers ­

fast and falling, to live and die together

of love and things to remember

somehow we got lost

chilly in the night cloud weather

blind sighted and now besides you

I too can never surrender.

In the blue water

The path of the sun, with its arrows shooting us toward home

the light, the lulling moon miles, the night roads we travel

in vast fields of star flowers we are born, reflections in the river

floating we ride, wildly glide, some days on the smooth tides

with these eyes, sometimes half blind

we live and dance, we hide, we fade and die

all too soon only a light glowing ghostly

a glimmer in the blue water.

This painting

I will tell you these things about the sky

and of summer going into fall, of berries nearly gone

the mountain ash trees green, gold and changing.

The yellow waxwings that perch beneath

the heavy laden leaves, cool

amid an autumn storm.

Half the sky is impossibly grey

then further away, turning black charcoal

a place where thunder is born, booming.

The other half, still deciding what to wear today

changing from pink, purple, blue

crashing its way into these luminous hills

meandering in sync with birds over the river

until the sun comes, igniting the clouds

on fire with red again.

The bittersweet

On mornings like this, I have pressing things

on my mind – digging and weeding, uncovering things

I lay here thinking of that time last spring

wandering the green fields, or in the canyon lands

under a skyful of blue, and I can’t seem to move

cannot rise from this bed, I play records

spinning round my head, I play records on repeat

the bittersweet of you and me.

Remembering last spring

That time in spring, the sweetness

the yellow green of emerging leaves

the popping and exploding

the bright shattering of petals

lilac flowers in our hands.

Walking the woods with you

tracing deer trails for hours

along the rocky river bank

and in the sycamore forest

we saw the silver shining trees

impossibly branched and reaching

mingling in the vast blue sky.

In the deeper woods, mysterious birds

sang incessant songs, ancient and forlorn

always their singing is reminding me

of the endless beauty to be found

always a deeper feeling of love.

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.

Sonoran desert 2

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.

Of sorrow

Sitting under these trees waiting

maybe all day for the moon

or the washing rain upon my face

lay upon this mossy grass, all sunk in

pay no mind to where I’ve been

no matter – awake or dreaming

I fly into the forest with birds

waxwings, Bohemians

under maple leaves

sun dappled, shining

or perched in the pinewoods

a safe place to hide away

a heart that’s dying.

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