2017 : July

Waiting for the waning
Of the smog of sorrow,
Feast of what we’re feigning
Least of all – tomorrow

Burdened in the building:
Debits, damned, debating —
Gunny sacks for guilding,
Wondering and waiting

Once upon a lonely byway,
There, a long-forgotten highway,
Walked a boy who wasn’t certain,
Certain about many things

Once impassioned, now embittered,
Garbage from the past had littered,
Littered all with grief, and hurting,
Hurting laced in everything

There a palace long abandoned
Sat half-buried in the sand, and
Tumbleweed and force decaying,
He walked by without a look

Once upon a life worth living
Death came young, without forgiving,
Giving any chance of staying,
Staying here, within the book.

To your days, then, now attend:

All must leave us, in
The end

The Book of Days and Marmots


Some climb so they may live, while others
Live among the heights,
And take it only as their due,
The chosen few
Who placidly ignore the sights
Among the high lands of their fathers and mothers.

Some struggle daily to be anything like free,
While others freely roam
And give no further thought
To what they have that can’t be bought
Like peace and home,
And taking mealtimes in the place they want to be.

Is there a place for you beyond the hurry,
On a mountainside to dwell
Within a place to call your own?
A touching stone:
More sound and safe than you could tell,
Just past the edge of all your sorrow and your worry?


Idly, upon the hills,
They spent their better days;
Sorrow came like sudden rain,
Darkening their ways

Once, the sky, in brightest blue,
Was in state arrayed:
Memories, grown dark, that drift
Slowly off
To fade


Do not judge me by
Appearance —
I am small, but strong.

Unlike some,
Who are big, but who
Live as fools.


I sing a song of mountains high,
And crystal air, and skies still pure:
My voice, it carries, swift and sure,
To those who know the battle’s nigh.

The battle’s nigh, and will be long,
To keep the hills and forests green
Beyond a world grown dank, obscene,
Where there sounds yet a mountain song


They called me a “fat squirrel” because
They didn’t know my name;
My type they’d never seen before,
And so, they did defame

My very self, with imprecations
On my size and weight:
But I’m a marmot, dammit —
That’s a blessing, not
A fate


We climbed for half a day; the Tirol Alps
Lay well around us, everywhere we looked,
Ablaze with life and light. And naive us
Expected Julie Andrews to show up.


Past sweeping swaths and heaving hills,
A mountain made of madness;
A covert camaraderie,
A gluttony of gladness

A paradise of paradox,
The half-known on the heights:
A man among the marmots,
Who belongs to

The Business of Poetry

I’ve been a poet time + times,
I’ve made exactly zero dimes.
I’ve seen more wise things said by mimes,
Although I have penned many rhymes —

I’m not quite sure if “poetry”
Is a cognate for “poverty”,
But both are much like puberty
In that they’re very hard on me.
In truth: a sort of lunacy,
That’s soon reduced to parody.

The moon and sun were out last night,
They hadn’t met for days —
No sooner did they meet, then they
Both went their separate ways.

It’s like some friends, or marriages:
That’s just the way things are —
But satellites can still reflect
Upon a late lost

I used to hear the singing stars at night.
I used to feel the swaying of the trees —
I’d dine and drink both star- and candlelight,
And taste the very fabric of the breeze,
As lonely gulls cried out across the way:
Back when I had the sense to sense
The day

Now Gratitude

Now gratitude, and love, and joy:
That heart meets heart, and girl meets boy –
That you met me, and I met you,
And we’re not even close to through
With what there is to see; explore —
The love that wakes us, wanting more –
The endless glist’ning of surprise
That are the stars
Your eyes

it is as thoughts through fingertips
whene’er I touch your face;
and love comes pouring back on me,
transcending time and place

i only ask a moment more,
i only ask this hour;
and i would stay the march of time
if i but had the pow’r

which i do not, and never will,
and so, just let us drink our fill
of what we do have, while we can:
for loving now beats any

mystic forest

the mystic forest

where branches intercept what

the heavens declare

the glow streams through
the yielding trees
to add its light
to our unease

but though our minds
are restless, true –
what light we have
will have
to do

scolded by beatitude,
blessed by touch of sorrow;
forest of today’s intent,
hide my shame

as i live and breathe

she once said

before she just stopped


what is your truth? what have you seen
when no one else was there to see?
is there a lonely spot of road
that's made from you or maybe me?

you knew one in the wintertime
when walls were painted with despair
and no place that you went preferred
to anywhere
or everywhere

what is your plot? your character? 
  your theme?
why do you linger over post, 
  or meme,
or stare at empty screens and wait 
  for words?
or dream of flight, while sealing out 
  the birds?

the lonesome road of wintertime
the isolated way;
the habits that are character,
the token we must pay
to see while we have eyes to see,
and not to look away:
for humankind is horrible
past what mere words can say.

our eyes look down,
the raptors coil above:
it's only love that is our hope,
and all our hope must be
in only

painted / blanket

behind a door,
inside a box,
wrapped up in papers with a bow

is how he feels
about his love:
so much that she will never know

he’d give his arm,
he’d give his heart,
but he can’t make his feelings felt

and silence like
a blanket falls —
for what she doesn’t know
can’t help

in painted sadness daylight goes
and takes her long hopes with it;
it’s time to care about herself,
it’s time to stop and pivot

and do the things she knows she must,
and to herself show honor:
although she knows she’s giving up
some things
she’ll always
long for