Tag Archives: poem

Ow, She Said. And Wow.

She stared at the solitary gull perched on a craggy rock. The sea, like undulating slates of purplish steel, or bruised rust, while a glaring wound of a sunset poured scarlet ribbons from its Martian gash. The gull flies away, … Continue reading

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D’Arc Night of the Soul

(For All Hallow’s eve, a “witch’s” tale) Enlightened, perhaps. God-engorged hormones, maybe. Regardless of why, Joan, you were the rebel prototype long before James Dean zipped up a red jacket, or Marlon Brando mumbled and curled his upper lip into … Continue reading

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Free Play

We live in a world of alchemy and swing, a freeform board game for sounding and experiment, and anyone that tells you any different has simply forgotten how to engage the play of their lives, or sow the grit, resin … Continue reading

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Growing Legend

Metamorphosis makes demands on us all, and imposes its necessary will, but love, rooted in omnipresence, is not subject to change. It is a legend, limitless in freight and scope, and famous for its radiant center.

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Autumn Leaves

Grieving, the swoonlit swans, crying last songs softly into autumn’s russet and moonfed belly.

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Rhyme-Scheme

There is nothing to order or arrange, nothing to worry about. No explanations required. Dry logic and tortured rationale can be set aside. At least for a little while. Try it. You see, everything rhymes in this letterless alphabet of … Continue reading

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Cask

We are here to marvel, and to grieve, to haunt the liminal edges which find us supremely fragile in our longing.

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Devotional

Remember me to the ease of light, its pause and passage, we are not long for this earth, which swallows us, and our lovetagged bones, as a matter of natural course and radical recomposition, all the gifts, and hopes unwound … Continue reading

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As You Desire

Free from staid context, and the fragile lull of fate, she had come a long unmapped way to create a new set of illusions by which to set and frame her course.   (Photo by Cindy Sherman)

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Neo-Realism

There was something about a white telephone, unringing, that made her think of tightly wound spirals of cigarette-smoke in Italian films, or poorly lit hotel rooms where actresses played to the pall of their silence and wanting. Any moment now, … Continue reading

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