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  • The Perfect

    Who is she
and where?
His Clementine 
whispering in his ear.
Anytime there's no one near.
Who picks flowers for herself,
lighting candles for the night.
He turns to see her pretty face.
Either she is quick to react
or,
in reality, has no place.

  • A Thousand Little Eyes

    Either I stood in your shadow
or waited in your shade. 
A fly on the wall
buzzing about things to be made.
Now I see clearly
with a thousand little eyes.
Please leave these words,
how little you keep inside.

  • Excerpts from Morning View

    "For once it was nice:
shedding myself of the most boring aspects of my life. 
Which were, realistically, the most exciting parts
in the lives of others...

Before, I placed all my perception of beauty into wonder,
into imagining great features in great lands,
great feats by great hands.
Now I know,
it is not those who wander that are lost,
but those who wonder endlessly of where they could go."

  • Coincidence

    For Eva, dear,
draw your forever near.
Your black crescent moon,
coals cold by noon.
In ink on your skin,
birds chirp on your shoulder.
Wake you at dawn. 
Lie to your ears.

  • Once Again

    I grow dizzy
with all the flames I've burned,
with all the times
this new leaf has turned.
Waste my dreams
as morning burns into view, 
a painful reminder
I wake without you.
Look over the ocean
at all the fish swimming free;
a lonely sailor 
caught by the sea.

  • Plea Bargain

    To the editor, 

I read the signs:
many long books,
reflections high and low.
For a great fear,
a life without, alone.
Madam, I confess,
of my journey
far and less;
of stars and streams alike. 
Nothing helped me see.
Not the sun behind her, 
burning in her amber eyes
or words within set free. 
I implore you,
find the will.

Maybe not a happy ending,
but an ending even still.

  • Glance

    Around and around
the red blue mind. 
Thoughts creep and whisper
in thin grey lines. 
Music to ears 
as silence to sleeping.
Deposit in years,
a warm heart beating.
Ask me now, 
where I have been.
I answer by staring
in low dull hymn.

  • Dotted Lines

    This is my calling. 
I hear it. 
My life will be spent running to, 
not from. 
The cold wind whispers; 
a compass through my soul.  
Soothing 
and chilling to the deepest rivers of my heart - 
the old. 
While the mountain stands. 
Sentries below. 
Ready, 
ringing to the core. 
I do not fear it.

  • Chooglin’

    Passed around the campfire, 
like cold whiskey rye, 
has long been a story 
of a river boat on high. 

A siren on a Saturday 
in line with a row of smoke. 
Chugging through the Mississippi 
where fools rock the boat. 

Crying, "don't you believe me!" 
"Well, what's it take?" 
A half soul and three pence 
for a jug and icing on the cake. 

The sirens wailing, 
said, "come have some fun." 
Those sailors jumped right in; 
danced to the sinking sun. 

Hootin' and hollerin' 
to the wild wicked moon. 
As crazed as dog bane, 
but you'll sure pay soon. 

Up came the toll -
hat passed around. 
The sailors had nothing,
not a soul to be found. 

That's what yah' get, boys, 
when you give the devil due, 
but he's a fair poker; 
now you'll be too. 

Folks don't believe me 
when I tell my wary tale. 
Those damned rosewater's  
for a night of glutton and ale. 

Mark my words clearly, 
when you see a ship of white 
turn stern and flee 
or work the Devil's shift all night.

  • Nutrients

    Where the wandering willows weep; 
for far they’ve come, no home, 
my foggy mind leaps 
to the end of the galaxy known. 
Who should I meet 
but the galaxy always alone. 

Once my travels cease, 
back to the shady grass. 
The tears the willows weep 
have turned all to laughs, 
to water at their feet,
a home they have at last.  

Unlike earth beneath the trees, 
my roots do not dig so. 
They open their hairy arms 
to much I do not know. 
Like water beneath the trees  
absorb all I need to grow.