Thursday, May 31, 2012


The tear in the shirt
            holds the character
                        of the man
            in its callused hand.

Frayed like an unraveling
            rope, the shirt
            the losses and gains

of a life that's grappled
            with the hooks
                        of error
            that teeter on whether

or not. The grubbing of grain
            from resisting land,
                        subject to rain
            that plots its own plane.

Wednesday, May 30, 2012


The rose reached for life
            through the shattered
                        back glass

            Its petals celebrating
                                    in the landfill of corrosion,
                        metal burning          
                        in lost vanity

Rose thorns delicate
            against shards
                        of glass,
                                    residue of middle-class
                        standards of safety

The rose
            its halting beauty
                        accenting untended
                                    greys and greens
                                                of loss.

Tuesday, May 29, 2012

Punching Shadows

Refining shadows was his delight
in life. Marking their boundaries,
polishing their angles, he clarified
the fuzziness of their perception.

Living with shadows like he did,
the hard-core, face-on reality
lost power. He knew only slant
of experience, glancing light.

When his shadow became itself,
negative transforming its print,
the eye reversed, seeing only
the inner self, lost its dazzle.

Monday, May 28, 2012


As a rose keep, I was an utter failure.
The bleating lambs called to me,
but I denied their need for fertile soil.
Tomorrow seemed soon enough

to prune dead growth and search
for black leaf. Let them frolic
in their own freedom, I thought,
leggy stems reaching to the sky.

Their thorns like cracked hooves
were such a bother, a rancorous
manifestation I took personally.
My heart wasn't right for it,

this shepherding that involved
soaker hoses, mulching roots.
Let the wolves come. I napped
peacefully beneath the oak.

Sunday, May 27, 2012


Some prefer their rumors in pieces
         words to chew and consider
                  cows in a huddle beneath the oaks
                           cuds to digest
                  in the companionship of kind

Connection more important than truth
         words binding one to another
                  shreds of evidence
                  enduring debris

Sorting out truth is a game
         like volleyball with its setup
                  and spike
                           the right team
                  sharing the win

Malevolent process that divides
         like cells in a cancerous growth
                  sometimes fatal

Saturday, May 26, 2012

Sleeping with Promises

The empty nightgown
            hanging on the door.
            its bodiless shape
                        the vacuity of hope
                                    that resurrection is more than myth.

            The sleeveless wonder
of remembered arms, fingers
                        frozen in a single

Whole visions emerge
            from thinning fabric
                        cloth returning
                                    to threaded
            patterns of provocation
                        casus belli.

Wisps of delight and destruction
                        hidden in shapeless folds
                                    soft, cool to the touch
                                                utterly empty...yet full.

Friday, May 25, 2012

After the Storm

Even the trees bend their knees
toward the dawn when the winds
come in the night.  They sense
the power in the zephyr grazing
their leaves, spiraling in patterns
with increased velocity, darkened
to the sinister forces they endure.

Their faith lies in the subtlety
of shared creation, their certainty
that life's cycle  renders completion.
Bending toward the dawn, they know
that the light of photosynthesis
will beam on leaves tossed askew
restoring the vitality the Son gives.

Thursday, May 24, 2012

Hunch Weaving

The flicker house was mounted
on a backyard tree
with desire to conserve,
to ensure a presence.

But squirrels thought
the box to be theirs,
a homestead for generations
of  furry tails.

They remodeled the opening,
wove pine straw ticking
and birthed the first brood
of tiny sunflower seed thieves.

The yard wars were on
and raged for decades.
The day wind felled the box,
hunch drove me to look inside

and there perched
on a pillow of down
was a single speckled egg.

Wednesday, May 23, 2012

Word Habits

She wears her words like a wimple,
starched and confining,
they rarely engender dialog,

The black serge flowing
to the floor measures
each syllable
for its suitability
in the moment,
stewardship of expression.

Her underskirts cover
the slip of the tongue
the intimacy of feeling
the unguarded response
of a woman more nearly human.

But the pointed toes
of the serviceable shoes
punctuate the sense
of a mind trained
in precision not fluency.