You wrenched open the sky,

particles fell.

It sparked your address–

awakened death knell.

Turned your evil trail into cotton balls—

dispersed by a gale

so no one could follow after.



Bench Time

Hack and spit,

Weight on a stick,

The squirrels probably think

I’ve come here to die.

Telling, tree splits

To it’s fractal leaflets

Ironed to the sky.

Surfing my dusk thoughts

Alms for the know-nots

Myself, of their kind.

My senses stay braided

Though I beg for partition,

From their snare, lybrinthine.

Sticky tears of Winter.

At a cold distance with nature,

a callow understanding

of what once

gathered under my fingernails,

whipped blithely my hair,

and scoffed at my presumptuous white dress.

I run from car to home to avoid you,

and I don’t visit you in the woods.

How can you forgive me?

I must fear the lash of the eddy-your white waters.

I couldn’t bear to know what it thinks of me now,

I don’t know anymore moss’s soft recoil

upon pealing my heavy hand away,

but I know your tamed wood at my kitchen table

–shaved of its skin to suit my needs.

I know plastic, steel, and plaster better than I know

the smell and feel of sap as I once did.

Sticky tears.

Luminous conflict

As the sunlight barges in on the stars

when he catches them all unaware,


The moon must retreat to the world afar

so others can glance on its hazy stare.


The sun finds its canvas; pale and new

once dark, painted orange and tickled pink


The rays catch the gleam of the fog and dew

As light tip toes in on puddles brink


Play hide and seek with the sun amongst trees

as flowers open for their beaming friend


Boasting of luster, though the moon disagrees

that lunar light was from morning star’s lend


Moon returns from its trip across the sphere

and docks its beams at its misty sky pier


Familiar Stranger


of passing stranger

suspends me in lives

I could have lived;

like undulating fog.

A memory I’ve never had:

tells me in whispered postage


and fading.

I can remember

the image,

no wait, the feeling.

I can recall neither but sense them both:

taupe and winnowed.

It’s the scent of halcyon years: burnt sugar and pine

Very familiar stranger

Hike Musings

Do you ever feel as if you can smell ‘cold’? How would you describe it?

To me it smells like wet cave and cedar.

Earlier, by way of wind, jasmine found a path to my nose.

I suspect it was phantom jasmine, because it doesn’t grow naturally here.

That was only the beginning of the hike my nose took.

I could make out the aroma of pine, all cozy and masculine.

I don’t mean that in the societal sense, but ┬áin the idea of earthen masculinity–stable and

unchanging, immune to the cycles of mother nature…as evergreens are.

As I made my way from the shadow of trees I smelled heat of gravel and dirt; mildly sticky

but mostly arid. A cove of rhododendron is what I came to next. The leaves seemed

encased in wax, allowing other scents to take center stage on their countenance, mostly

rain water. The welcome breeze was absent of one thing–and I suspect it always will be..

because we will never know the smell of a spiderweb.

On Ungratefulness

Your eyes crack open to a vision of dawn;

Yet “here comes the night!” you say.

Here gallop steeds with ends of a dark blanket in their mouth

ready to cloak your vicinity

With fire in eyes,

theirs and yours–

which is why you can’t see the good

around you.

You can’t see past your third eye.

Day breaks!!

Day breaks and you’re still here!

Rejoice and reconsider.