Poems Of April 2007-2018

Every body breathe in and out 

 minds filling with peace and 

the music of forgiveness,

The holiness of hands reaching 

out in the darkness in hope

of redemption and a door

opening into a day 

so bright fear cannot make a shadow.



Blue Skies Are Advertising for Your Life

Every moment yearns to create a light through you.

Every moment an opportunity for discovering a path to send you into the heart of the world.

You must fold space and time and bring forth a new sun,

give it away to anyone

who will walk under it.



Time you enjoy wasting

is not wasted time.

Stop acting so small.

You are the ecstatic

motion of the universe.

It’s only our mistakes

that bring us to the place

where we should have been all along.


A Drift

Everything then was falling apart

and coming together


situations bleeding noiselessly,

the saturation of 

wicking colors

through beige fibers

suddenly impacted by 

metal and glass

screaming to a halt

bodies flying in all directions

trying to land

somewhere soft enough 

to roll into

the next incarnation.

In the background

grey figures moved,

attending churches and barbecues,

raffles and discos,

hot dates and cool mornings,

parallel but distorted

through bubbled lens 

chosen not- entered into not-committed

examining separation

hanging on fringe

dangling jangled with 

every waft of breeze. 


It is not your fault the water is deep.

Whether you float or sink is a matter of choice.

Interesting things may be found at the bottom.

“I am going that direction,

Why not keep going?”

Up or down.

Bubbles always rise.

They have no will,

No muscles or thought.

They can’t perceive the light

they travel so perfectly toward.

They know nothing of light or breath.

Take yourself or let yourself

burst into the storm of air

or down.

Something will happen.


The drumbeat heart in my brain,

Pain, Pain, Pain, Pain . . .

I follow its path,

through the maze of my body.

One little nerve is dying,

and in that death drives

the cold flickering pulse

of the drum stab noise

that smothers my other songs

Pain, Pain, Pain, Pain . . .

Fluid I

I Go quietly,

The earth is not my home.

inside my skin and bones

works of copper plate


patterned frequencies.

Gears click and grind.

I float downstream

knobby feet to the sun

tiny hands of water 

pass me along 

unconnected only loosely bound

in chaos as blood pumping

whispers in soft puffs 

blown through a straw.


Fluid II

I think about a bowl

and those who wish


eyes closed.

It hovers

a gyroscopic blur

accelerating into vapor

clouds form and cool in stretched 

orbital rings swelling into planetary bubbles

whirling down a spiral funnel 

spinning, compressed

into a nameless solution

flowing into lungs



April 3

Black birds red shoulders

Blaze on blue across green

shrilling the sound red

over the shaded water.

April 4

Again the last years dead

stand out darkly

against the green spreading wings 

April 5

The world’s smallest violin was playing

when you handed my ring

back to me

two fingertips rubbing silently


Why Child

I draw a storm of letters,

Tangled in spider silk,

buzzing winged things


Vibrations multiplied

fingers on strings


I roll a bowl of noise

between the frames,

birds of different feathers


swoop the bees


the trees,

dive into this 

garden of pie.

Still I am waiting

for a child with a why

and a slowly smacking 



Tolmie State Park

The tight fist of day

Softened in the light

Fading over the still water 

beyond the rock mossy flat.

My footsteps on the bridge

as I walked back to the car

The sound of wood vibrating.



People in groups

around parked cars and trucks

vehicles wander the sand

The ocean’s edge tumbles in and out

beyond the tide zone

Storms and tsunamis

have deposited massive

carvings, I walk among 

the silent bodies washed

and broken.

 Tide Lines

Malibu Beach, Malibu Beach

I just like saying Malibu Beach

It bumps off my lips in sibilant clips,

and slants down into the sea.


Lady Be Gone

Fly some, flee some

get some freedom.

run some, crawl some

stand and fall some.

grab those bones,

beat that drum until it bleeds

dig some, sow some

wilder seeds.

plant some, grow some

then you can blow some

dark and jagged

ragged and raging

on those windy weedy reeds.


Day Light Moon

shadow stained mirror or

 A ghostly embryo floating

in a womb of sky?


Fresh Water Habitat

Ruffled water,

lily leaves drift in anchored circles,

birds gabble and croak and whistle

beyond the trees on the far shore

an ice cream truck blares its territorial song

on its daily migration.


Paleo Lithic Poems

Spirals of oxidized clay

the eyes of beasts



Concentric Bubbles

When I think in poetry,

I draw diagrams of meaning

inside larger circles of words

made of symbols for windy sounds 



Packs of baseball cards on the racks

as I walk past into the supermarket

enclosed me in a scent memory

of cardboard and bubblegum

a distant feeling circle

so immense I could never 

get outside of it.


Now my limiting circles have expanded

to reach stars and inverted

down to microbes and electrons,

my enveloping skin stretched 

so thin I could pop me with a thought.



He was misleading 

The two women about

his father’s ability to

care for himself.

He feared they would not

take such a helpless man.



All this world wants of me

is everything consumed,

from beginning to end, 

how can a person even know

who or what is this cloud

of tissues and liquids,

gasses and electricity?