Jul 16

Deal with the sea

I cannot fish but I come to see
whether the waves have a gift for me
to catch the creature the water stole
but needless of a fishing pole
tide rush in and tide rush out
a mackerel a herring a haddock a trout
fisherman laugh with their sea wethered nets
"The ocean is guilty but has no regrets."
but maybe there is hope in the form of a fish
motorboat horizon I make my wish
behold a black sea that wasn't forgiven
now it takes my prize from where it was hidden
reaching down low for the very best one
witness is wind and cloud and sun
for crossing the sea in moral is worse
than a demon a sickness an evil a curse
but since it crossed me I should think I'm in right
to leave the beach with a catch tonight
and with a hurl the water spews out
a mackerel a herring a haddock a trout
no need to say praise or a humble thank you
the waves are already blushing a deep bubbling blue
Jul 16


What gives the island such lure?
The lone strand
flower-pressed onto the horizon
necklace of sand strung seashells
shoulders tucked bashfully under
the rolling green summer dress
cleanly cuts off at the water.
Do you itch with seagulls
and crawl with visitors like ants?
Or do you lift a little out of the ocean
with the excitement of a hermit crab
when we come to see you?
I find not where your feet rest
but ask you stay where the barnacles
for I do not like the sight of the horizon
without your shoulders constantly
daring me to wonder

Jul 16

Apple seed

Dear old and forgotten child, 
You must have known
when you planted the apple seed
that it would not be yours to keep
You must have known
the rings would thicken 
in their own leisure
and the apples would come
proud and blushing
decades from now
you must have known
that the branches would
still be too tender 
to climb when you 
grew adventurous
you must have expected this
and understood how patient
you had to be with the 
sprout then seedling then sapling
as it melted slowly towards the sky
there was no reward for you
only the constant comments
of how sickly it looked
there was no reward for you
but to watch it grow
you must have known this
as you tucked gleaming black dirt
around the smooth bark
like a scarf
you must have known this 
that nothing would bloom for you
only the visions of what it would be
for me
Jun 30

summer storm

I know when the wind comes,
with electric exitedment
flipping the leaves 
on their backs
like pale-bellied turtles
when the seamless sky
rots into a storm
in the west 
while the blue sits safe
hugging it's knees, 
in the east
I watch as the wind comes again
this time vivid
with fingers casually parting
the trees like hair
curving the supple branches into
braids of green and brown
thunder starts in muffled growls
til it rattles in it's cage
a jungle predator among
our droop eyed cows
what a disadvantage
tell me again
how unlikely it is to be struck
by lightning
tell me again
that only the flagpole
and the old oak tree
should be shaking
tell me again that matchsticks 
only burn to the bottom and 
stop there
tell me again that laying cows
don't get hurt
tell me again why summer storms
May 20


Nothing to say
a cow wouldn't
kill you
lure you alone
into the field
stirring you 
softening you
with mismatched eyes
one pushing 
one pulling
letting the fence
wire shudder back
into place
and the hollow twang
blurs into cicadas
and the cow has
you now
feet adjusting ever 
slow slightly
as if it fears
to tear through the 
and as you approach
down the aisle of grass
the cow's bones throb
with excitement
poking like fingers
through a grocery bag
and a damp snort is the 
last thing you hear
and people now start 
to fill up the field 
to find you 
with the cow standing
high above
as if it had
found you like so
they thank the cow
that preserver of life
and the flies have now 
shifted from it's nose
to something knew
nothing will touch
the cow but the 
May 13


We all hit the fan

Splattering against the walls

Like chicken pox

Surprise unfolded in

Our faces

As the fan blades

Split us apart

But I find this does not

Justify our confusion

Since I did not

Push us into the fan

None of us did

So I say our 

Shredding came

Like a jam jar

Meeting pavement

Berries grown

Glass blown

Thought to be safe

In our hands

We had cradled

The jar for 


And in our confidence

We dropped the jar

Before we even tasted 

The jam

All that is left now

are our unweighted palms

Floating up to the fan

All that is left now

Are the red lines

The jar lid

Burned on our fingertips
May 05

a wall over

a wall over
are well wrapped
I wish to nestle
on my tongue
and describe to you
the kind where
you cage your breath
in fragile lungs
til it bruises into 
a beast
that threatens to burst
just to hear what
they are saying
and a word 
or two
vibrate like bees
in your ears
honey making you 
itch with guilt
but the conversation
falls to quickly
before you can pick it up
lying like shattered 
jam jars on the floor
for you to piece back together
carefully trying to 
open sealed envelopes
without ripping them 
in half
and the creatures
a wall over
seem to be talking about
their sewn lip sentences
with exitement
they know their words
are driving you mad
and the conversation
no one can hear
curls around your ear
Apr 23

Shirt shopping

I was buying a shirt
nothing terribly
life changing
or important
one design
two styles
men's and
and it seemed 
quite normal that
the shirts would be different
yet nothing gave reason
to the low neckline
on the women's shirt
it is hard to write a poem
to explain how 
unsettling that was for me
how I was supposed
to want such a shirt
such a neckline
and that they took the 
to say it was a 
women's shirt
and while I had 
been sleeping
they had decided
what I liked
what I was
who I would be
and like a braid
I lost my choice
along with my
naive placidness
sending waves
on that once
calm surface
and I don't want to make
a fuss
but as I walked 
in the dark
I stumbled
and found a tug
Apr 22

Spring snow

Snow puddles
upon the grass
like grease stains 
on a brown paper bag
when it first fell
like small 
parachutes soldiers
from an enemy
on the 
blushing grass
again the magnolia
takes all my pity
it has no escape
in the spring storm
quite underdressed
in fruity gauze
quickly follows
the forsythia 
yellow thinning
to white supreme
both trees stand
pompeii shadows
ash petals captured
or at least until tomorrow
when the bees find them
but for now they remain 
pale and sickly
daffodils strain
to keep their necks above
the rising snow
whites waves 
shocked flowers 
pucker their petals
all small blooms
twist close like
umbrellas in the snow
worms poke up
only to feel the 
stinging flakes 
and those who 
twitched in the