Jan 26


A ghost of a creature rises from the black

Its spectral fringes ripple with movement

Speckles of light glisten from its edges

Its milky frills flow and dance with the current

More drift up beside it, each gaudier than the last

Their transparent bodies beam in the moonlight

Twinkling jellies as far as the eye can see

Their tendrils gumming all in an electric bubble

A stinging snare of alluring beauty

In which there is no escape

Jan 22

If You Listen to Fear

Harken here.
You’ll be lost without my strings.
You’ll shed too many tears.
You’ll lose those useless wings.

What if they catch you?
What will they say?
What if they disapprove?
What will you have to pay?

You can’t watch this in front of them.
You can’t try this out.
You can’t read this then.
You can’t draw this now.

How will you finish it?
How will you succeed?
How will you make it fit?
How will you lead?

You won’t ail.
You won’t displease.
You won’t fail.
If you listen to me.

Jan 07

January 6, 2021

Oct 04

To climb a tree

Branches whipped in the icy gale.
Leaves were tossed in the breeze.
The sky was a turbulent grey.

Hands ran raw over coarse bark.
Hair tangled in thorny twigs.
Feet slipped against the shaggy trunk.

Rain combated the sparse canopy.
Apples glistened with sharp mist.
The air was a shower of static.

Fingers gripped soaked knots.
Eyes narrowed in concentration.
Muscles heaved upwards.

Sun glimmered through parting clouds.
Rays bent through droplet prisms.
Rainbows scattered in the treetop.

Breaths slowed to the beat of the drizzle.
Body perched on the highest limb.
Mouth curled into a triumphant smile.
May 26


(Based on "Hope" by Emily Dickinson)

Annoyance is the thing with constant wings-
that whine in a ceaseless tone,
and sucks the blood from your veins,
and never leaves you alone

Scrating itches that come from bites
will lead to oozing sores,
Countless swarms of futile fights
The way to win is to ignore

Like thunder before lightning forms-
in the humid of the skies,
Thousands gather before a storm
Your frustration is their prize.
Dec 05

When Winter Comes In November

November has its own sort of beauty

Not like early spring or late fall

After the first snow comes, a fine dusting of ice coats spindly branches

Slush fringes roads and buries the newest leaf layer

The air is tinged with the husky scent of frozen tree bark

The blue sky is stained a frigid gray

Forgotten harvests rot and freeze into desiccated shapes

Remaining birds huddle on exposed branches, their melodies hushed by a sharp north wind

Houses become fortresses of ensconce against a squalling evening gale which moans and screams at midnight

A thin sunrise sheds weak morning light on slumped dormant hills

The green mountains shimmer with the second snowfall encrusting the ruddy brown, revealing the national colors of early winter.

Oct 06

Mid-day Thunderstorm

An early morning fog curls around the mountains and blankets the fields with fresh dew.

Warm wind blows through the trees, and bright leaves flutter, then are tossed away.

Clouds rumble and clash in the sky, their war cries can be heard thundering in the air.

Rain drenches everything, making colors run into a patchwork of quilts.

A sunset as fiery as the trees pushes its way through the last of the tumbling clouds, casting blazing rays on a storm-soaked road below, and setting the wilderness-fringed hills on fire.
Jun 21

Lake Champlain at Sunset

The egg yolk of a sun had already dripped away

City lights peppered the peninsula, breaking up the hard outline where land meets air

The lake was a placid raspberry colored mirror of the rainbow sunset, fringed by indigo night

Fish disrupted the watery glass-like surface, creating small ripples

As the colorful horizon melted into the vast depths of sky, a large ghost-like moon rose

The lake now shimmered with a new pale light.
Jan 21


The sun was a halo of light in the south sky.

Smoke stained snowbanks lined the grey road.

Electric colors of traffic lights blazed apart from the monotone world.

The waters of the lake were cold and stony, edges frayed by the wind.

Cubic shapes of buildings shaded the city, red bricks drained of their cheery jublilance.

White snowflakes drifted down adding to the piles of slush along grey street.
Jan 21

Hanging from the Telephone Wire

I wonder how old those shoes are, hanging on the telephone wire.

Their laces baked and hardened by the sun, I wonder when their time there will be done.

Tied and thrown up high by bullies who wanted them to fly.

If your shoes are taken by that pack, you're never getting those back.

I wonder when the laces will break, it's unknown how long that will take.

How old are they?