We call things ‘mixed’ as though
  they don’t belong together;
  this is strange.

All that is
  belongs together, for
  here we are,

Or maybe…

We call them ‘mixed’ because
  they come from different places, but
  everything is from
  a different place from everything else —
  it’s just a matter of
  how far apart.

Such mixture as there is
  brings all the flavor;
  such togetherness as we can manage
  makes the experience of it possible.

So, sure, we are mixed:
  Mixed up,
  Tossed around,
  Cooked together, and



I give you what I have in posts
For we are poor in other ways;
We walk along the waterside
And dream of nights, amid these days,

    Of multitude, and lassitude,
    And attitude, and power:
    A sun that shines on shoulders cold,
    A view atop the tower —

I give you what I have in posts:
To walk in joy, to sleep with ghosts,
To hear the water, as we should,
And try to make gold out of wood —

    For augury, and penury,
    And apathy, and yearning
    Are how we’ll have to warm ourselves
    With not else left for burning —

I give you what I have in posts —
To climb upon, to walk beside,
To mark in passing as you ride
Toward what you want and need the most,

    For everything and anything
    And all the things that bind us,
    There are still posts that mark the cage
    That formerly confined us

    And we are waves upon the sea,
    A wave within a larger host
    To lap up on eternity
    And brush the careful dawn

    In posts

{ humble. }


The mist and rain, a gray wet towel
Upon the earth. The trees in layers,
Steeples, traffic lights – and one,
A straggling car, drives slowly down
A hidden byway, fire hydrant lost,
A wood fence rotting in the damp,
Along a pitted driveway where
A bent mailbox sits rusting.
Pulling in.

= = = = =


The fire crackles; plaid and coffee,
Outside, inside,
Feet stretched out and music,
Mellower than mocha, looking
Over at the rain upon the window.
Lights reflected warm,
The cold fall mist highlights
The swing of headlights
Into the dull gray yard beyond
Her thoughts.

= = = = =


Borders of a shared aluminum
Shell, the edge of that small town;
A year apart, and everywhere else
Together. Humble Oil
And Burger Chef nearby.
An era lost, or never found:
And from that place
They each emerged – she married,
He enlisted – and both determined
To get away from all that stained
Their pillows: decades torn
And skin shed wrinkled,
Only Holiday letters, then
His car arrives.

= = = = =


The mist runs now inside, the gray
Is shared, the once-young faltering;
But love is never really old,
It’s only shivering unspoken,
Cold and rain, that
Brother, sister
Bringing once again the sound
And scent of once
A trailer park
And humble that became
Their long escape.
Too late, it never is,
To do what’s right.


I know the names
Of my patrilineal line
All the way back to 1650
My father
His father
His father’s father
And so forth

But while I have their DNA
Or genetic structure
Or blood
Or whatever today’s science says I have of theirs

To me, now, they’re mostly just
Letters on a page
Runes from a bygone past

Except for my father who I knew
And my grandfather, who I’ve heard stories about

The rest?

While, in some ways, those are me
And my brother and my sister
Many are the ancestors that make up a person’s past

Too many to keep track of through time’s annals

Chances are, we’ve all been kings and queens
We’ve all been slaves and downtrodden
We’ve all lived in peace
And we’ve all died in war

But we may not see it

Because we cannot read

The symbols