poetry & things


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.

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.

Felt like wind

I felt like wind, void of soul

transient, moving thing

all the blowing around

with waves and shores

under moons and silent,

awaiting certain suns.

Only a sound outside the window

chimes and bells, nothing to grasp

though felt, a warm wind,

a chill splitting cold.

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


The greening of spring

The green vines of spring, tendrils wrapped and clinging

winter colored moons travel southward toward summer

this blossomy bliss and spark of stars, petals of falling sky

round rain, the crash and splashing muddy pool

an underground garden of jewels that loom

in cool caves they creep and drowsy sleep

can only dream to bloom.

Rain roses

Red velvet, rain roses

petals drip in language of love

unfurling in morning, night buds are blooming

this garden, the twining of birds

sunning, the lilies are burning red

night stars are sleeping

drunk, we are drinking

the silence, the words unsaid.

This wind

There is a holiness in the wind

these wisps of diaphanous clouds that fly

always I smile in the gentlest of winds that kiss

oh, but I do not like the harshness of winds that whip

how they come to blow the hollow of darkness

toward the light again, things buried underground

places – like death, the stabbing pains

I’ve met, awakened while

seeing and feeling.

Of birds

I cannot stand these cages we make

see how we fly, how we try to be free

I have let go of every bird, I’ve ever thought I owned

I see them in dreams now and then

I watched their wings turn against the winds

saw some tattered, fly home again.

I loved the swoop and dive

the diaphanous delight of downy feathers

in winter, gathering cozy all around me

I am mesmerized by dark wings

the trick and glint of light

it warms like fire, a place

to dream by.

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.

Trees and feathers

I saw tiny feathers fly

soft and sailing, floating cozy to the ground

the warm nestle of tree branch song

some low in creaking tones

how the tallest trees moan

old and moving

very slow.

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.

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