Thursday, January 28, 2016

What ducks will say

shovelful after shovelful
to clear the patio and the pit
and the question mark back
remains after shaking snow
and ice from the iron cage

behavior of an older age
an age once I will be soon
where I can take the time
to ponder over such things
and look back at where I am

for now, paper is torn
to strips and laid over sticks
in the concave metal disc
as remaining snow waits
to melt and boil and fade

little flames flicker with
the striking of a match
and the wind whistles
through the paper tunnels
its love song for fire

the box of junk mail slowly
empties into the growing
heat and smoke, the pair
a paparazzi who will not
stay out of my face and breath

in avoiding their constant
attention, I look up and find
a scrambled flock of ducks
who sound of loose belts
on old cars speeding on by

their flight reminds me
to pause from my endeavor
to find more than feeding
a fire is happening in this
moment I choose to live

that I should stop and
see the ash from the flames
and how the winds scatter
black bits across the snow
in this small scaled backyard

to remember a larger scale
of the world I choose to
live in, the darkening snow
of a thawing sea, something
more to fight a war over

but I am only burning
the mail I didn't want so
I can clean the office for now
and go on with the day
I choose to live in now

Sunday, January 24, 2016

Momentary mountains

reflections lay gleaming
and tired on the ground
where weathered stone
cups the light of the lingering day

remnants of the torrent
tearing through the skies
lay in a now silent eve
unmoving silk draped over stone

reservoirs from broken heat
are libations of miller moths
when suddenly the sun sinks
behind the horizon's momentary mountains

Thursday, January 21, 2016

Eye sickles

it's the clouds
that keep the fangs around
the crystal clear
slowly dripping to the ground

some so sharp and thin
to pierce the heart,
to tear the skin

above the doors
the clouds keep them around
pointed daggers
slowly dripping to the ground

as angel wings hide the sun
they scoff in their
teetering possible fun

of when one might
decide not to stay around
and surrender the
slowly dripping to the ground

to collide with someone's head
to cause mischief,
surprise, and pain instead

that surely is why
the clouds keep them around
in their agonizing
slowly dripping to the ground

as angels hide the sun so well
I'd tell them all
to go straight to hell

for playing the odds
in keeping them around
and savoring  the
slowly dripping to the ground

Thursday, January 7, 2016


savor of solace found

in the last breath before sleep

the forgotten image in

front of the heavy eyelids

the tiny bit of muffled

sound lingering on earlobes

before slipping into the

inevitable and unknown


and not knowing digs

down into depths of souls

with thirsty tyrannical roots


be it the first nap of a babe

the initial night terror

with the call of a banshee

tearing through the halls

to snap a parent out of bed

the tyrannical roots have

scattered their spores

throughout man's psyche


and not knowing infiltrates

the borders where now

no guard has their post


though it has been habit

day in and out, sun up and down

to slip into that other state

left behind our daily clothes

and stark we run through

the glare of both moon and stars

and dance on spider threads

dripping with the cold wake

of the next routine and hours


and not knowing simmers

on the back burner of brains

idle yet scheming yet biding


following the rabbit through

this habit of falling again and

again into the abysmal sea

where we don't see but feel

don't feel but sense as we

are the incense that burns away

a scent that fades from the air

to drift and wander off somewhere


and not knowing turns cold

when the idea of death dies

giving way to sleeping, then waking

Thursday, December 31, 2015

New? year

Ben's hands fold
to pray for another day
one anew too
in another time
but the old lame slime

cheers a cup of cheer
raise a glass for the new year
blah blah Auld Lang Syne
still the old lame slime

a wash for numeral digits
scrub those zeros, ones, twos
shiny new sixes in time
lingering the old lame slime

predict all those accordingly
what's in store well ahead
for sure the perfect chime
one of the old lame slime

but Ben's hands grasp tight
and pray up over head
to hope so well
for a different climb
away from the old lame slime

Thursday, December 24, 2015

Sacred night

a sacred night to eye the sky
to look above into the past
the lights they reach through the dark
signals from the very start

a gaze upon our eternity
the endless dark waves of the sea
the waters glisten within the stars
on this sea our dreams depart

to set sail across the sky
drifting to find their right place in time
reaching their destination as a gift
but for now our dreams must drift

Wednesday, December 23, 2015

In the box?

what be it in the box? 
albeit a strange looking box
all wrapped up in papers that glitter
golds, reds, and greens of autumn litter
what be it in the box?
can't wait to see

what be it in the sox?
albeit rather long red sox
all hung precariously next to the flame
if they burnt up it would be such a shame
can't contain myself in this waiting game
what be it in the sox?
pour them out already

what be it in the sleigh?
albeit an odd place for a sleigh
up on the peak of our icy cold roof
to keep it so high to be so aloof
why all the secrets, enough is enoof
what be it in the sleigh?
oh please here my plea

what be it in the bag?
albeit a stupendously big bag
hurled over the shoulder of the jolly guy
jelly for a belly, ho ho ho is his cry
as he hops into the sleigh and away to fly
my questions vanish with him into the night sky
what be it in the bag?
somebody answer me

Monday, December 21, 2015

Angel smoke

their raven wing clouds
the day in mourners shrouds
ashes flick to ground
from angels on their cigarette breaks

the time to shed our clothes
throw away those dirty robes
as they hang on iron gates
we sink into the earth

their murky ink clouds
the grays they spin around
showers of ash rain down
from chain smoking angels on high

the moment to tear our clothes
to strip down and disrobe
throw them over the iron gates
and revel in cold soaked earth

Friday, December 18, 2015

December 18th

words written in white
a language of a tongue
forgotten in the frigid
conclusion of the fall

words written on panes
of momentary glass
from a pen unseen
an author abhorred, mostly

spectral icy ink
tattoos the frosted flesh
echoes of the perished
that will linger still

after winds tear from
the trees their leaves
the sky sheds its own
in lace it buries

glazed in white words
promise of winter worlds
that torments dreams in
the conclusion of the fall