Sunday, February 28, 2010

Brewing alchemy.

Broth simmers on the stove, warm
rumbling releases of evaporating hope
persistently rising, as a gale

gentle in its beginnings
like an early spring rain, a harbinger of summer
storms, an annual foretelling

of change. Wisdom knowing each season
passes, melting into familiar air
with aged and tried reason

warming cold decay inside
insulated layers. The peaty cover, striped
naked; but now not needing to hide.

Friday, February 26, 2010

Faith is the bird.

Fighting for morning,
staging first breaths to be heard;
movement speaking before songs
open, swallowing the darkness.

Creatures confident of their place and timing,
weaving the day's timbre;
distantly, a voice begins the promise,
this daily baptism.

I alone the audience
as half-light parquets doubtful prayers.

Wednesday, February 24, 2010

Tonal Ghosts.

Stillness falls loudly;
echoing, like rain on a barn's tin roof in spring.
Emphatically present,

patient answers brim
meeting seeking ears, amid
persistently falling stillness.

Young silence molts with the seasons,
feathering age, and its weight
birthing stillness.

Absence whispers stories; tonal ghosts
sing lullabies to one quiet soul.

Wednesday, February 17, 2010


Winter collapses on itself,
surrendering to the arms of spring
running her course, gurgling promises
spoken through layers of ice,
thinning each day, eroded by the water's
anxious movements eddying in the moonlight.

Tuesday, February 16, 2010


Obedient mouths
gaping like nestlings; hungry
for what? They don't know.

Mindless, meaningless
rote social expectations;
only memories,

exist in thoughts, I
alone, fed by the silence,
left with hunger's pains.

Sunday, February 14, 2010

The Inheritance.

I feel the ticking away at my inheritence of breaths,
a dictator's hands on a handed down pocket watch, unwanted
as each generation holds out their hands in obedience.

Caesuras in steps
dancing in my chest, wearing the floor smooth
with hard practice.

Inhalations of grace escape lungs, exhausted
by Eve's betrayal,
leaving only this knowledge...


Saturday, February 13, 2010

On a Telephone Line.

Crows perch on the heart-
strings of communication,
waiting to devour.

Thursday, February 11, 2010


Herefords graze, on the hillside
long fingers of morning reach out melting midnight's crust,
pure white bellies, dewlaps and faces
blend into snow covered sage. Auburn backs,
rusty illusioned brush
of thoughtful ruminations.

Tuesday, February 9, 2010

The Team.

Canada Geese honk on artificial turf,
amplified through the bull-horn of canyons
cemented to the campus quad.
The players don't know of these imitators'
cheers and jeers; cold phantoms in the dark
morning, too early for football.

Monday, February 8, 2010


If prayers had strength
reaching your ears, would they sound
like the chickadees?

Sunday, February 7, 2010


Is it Truth, if I come home looking,
like an old man
prematurely grown gray, bearded with snow,
that I am one?

Friday, February 5, 2010


Winds sing lullabies
of spring, to February,
on midnights like this.

Thursday, February 4, 2010

Habits Break.

No "Stop Requested," no light
blinks on, in a pull for home.
I'm the only soul who missed
the corner, everyone notices,
everyone questions, remembering
morning whispers, of wind rolling
rounder and rounder, like hand patted fat
on the torso of a snowman.
Voices yawn loudly to a close
as habits break, with stumbling steps
down the aisle, out the door
into stuttering darkness of worn plans
comfortably familiar, if unloved...
tonight, I am Unknown.


Writing poetry
in meetings; I, an actor
on the stage of notes.

Wednesday, February 3, 2010

After-Work Accountant.

A man sits alone in a double seat, balancing
the things we all do, some better than others.
One of the better ones, he has something to add
confidently, in pen.

Strokes of precision, elegant in pencil and grid,
now lines bow to mundanity, proving existence
in receipts for bread,
milk, and eggs.

Loosely rolled, plans sit in an empty seat
waiting, as he works upon an accordion file desk.


I have two windows
lit, glowing like pumpkins' eyes
through the dark morning.

Tuesday, February 2, 2010

Hoar fingers.

The moon seeks in different shapes every night
he and I never the same.
Hoar fingers reach through panes coldly,
waning to be noticed, as his silence
peels back warmth in layers, finding the pith sour.
Is sweetness past, or, in ripening
still young like this year.


Light plays with darkness,
teasing eyes with phantoms; then,
swallowed by the trees.