lundi, février 02, 2009

In The News

But the soldiers in their gray flannel coats were reduced to clomping and trudging in the deep snow, instead of their normal crisp marching steps.

(News link)

"...a nonstop medley of tree limbs cracking off.”

(News link)

mardi, avril 08, 2008


no apples of gold
no pictures of silver
just butterscotched fingers
and a half eaten granny smith

strings attached

i'm sorry i sought you
i'm sorry i seek you
i'm sorry i can't leave you alone

you are you
and you are me
and there's an us inside the we

talk can flat line
motivation lack
heart strings snap
memories die childless

i look with white-orb eyes
to my carcass address book
and its ribbon of x's
a page of "where you were's"

my heart hugs faraways
in emptiness my lungs breathe stupidly
little sister - know nothing

'right here, scout.
take my picture with this wall.'

my childhood
fixed immovable on you
do you pretend you weren't
do you want to make it undone
do you want to erase
you were
you are

the us inside the we

mercredi, mars 14, 2007


it's obvious you love me
you reek of it
i love you
and our smiles
light up room after room

vendredi, février 16, 2007

It Will Find You

The lonesome hotspot of reflection,
the dog-eared corner of regret,
the shattered mouth of indecision,
will crash through solid walls to find you,
It will come and find you yet.

the draping rag of melancholy,
the limping dog of chance and loss,
the overwhelming stench of cowardice,
will ever seek and ruthless hound you,
it will someday your path cross.

And would you like to chance upon it,
the bird of love, the crown of peace?
And would you build your dreams around it,
that all your sorrow someday cease?

Joy is faster than the fastest raven,
Love runs harder than the sun,
Peace is but a shadowed whisper,
you may beg and beg it hover;
but its race is never done.

vendredi, janvier 12, 2007

July and June

May, April, March
January the twelfth
at noon.

lundi, janvier 08, 2007


Even a stick in the ground
is a sundial
if the Sun so chooses.

Life A Graveyard

Life is a graveyard
of moments we chose
and now they lie buried under time.
But now and then they get up
and wander around.
This is called "memories."

jeudi, décembre 21, 2006

Christmas Prayer

Where, Christ Child,
can you lay your head
and where will be your rest
when the human heart is made of lead
locked in an iron breast?

When, Christ Child,
will you rule this land
and where will be your throne
when each man's Promised Land
lays captive under Rome?

How, Christ Child,
can I offer you
a gift that meets your worth
when all I have is broken fear
and the crippled dust of earth?

Here, my Lord,
take my thoughts, deeds, time
Be crowned King once again
of weeds, and dust, and worthless grime.
Transform them all, Amen.

vendredi, décembre 08, 2006

Curtain Down

Young fancy often
propelled me to create
as a whimsied child
countless events,
final curtains,
resting places for imagined
love affairs
the reasons innumerable:
he was gay...
he'd been unfaitful...
he was dead...

but this one was new.
I had not
conjured up
this scenario
in my youth
so you shouldn't wonder
that I got the script
and told you I would wait for you
to understand me
and to want me more
than you do now.

And I am eating
at my desk
those little pretzels
with the taste we hated
and vowed never to eat
because they are here
and available...

which is more than I can say
about you.