Tuesday, July 22, 2014

One Simple Motion

The house is dark again.

Music drifts,
softly settles,
like dust
on my face.

Now is the time
when veils decline-

when I can see
the faint motion
of breath,

my chest rising and
falling, life expelled
and pulled sharply back:

living and dying
in one, simple

Sunday, July 20, 2014

Poet in the Coffee Shop

new brew
roasting, flowing 
aroma rolling

grinding, growling 
out fresh

and you,
awash in lilting 
ballads consuming
across the room.

Just keep your eyes down 
on your honeyed-

frenzied bees
that buzz, 

and to song

French Park Creek

Deep in the woods
down the steep trench
we call to each other -
to the creek we descend

through green shadows rushing
over shallow, smooth stones,
to deeper, dark  pools
where love lies, alone.  

Hand in warm hand
we run, holding tight
and laughing we fall
to our own secret night.

Saturday, July 19, 2014

Nearly Ripe

Nearly ripe, these green apples
hang heavy
from our bursting tree,
the warm evening sun
glinting through swaying branches.

They will be ready
in about a week.

Then I’ll slice them into sweet crescents
and their taste will dance upon your tongue
with all the secrets our tree has been keeping,
its living leaves,
its smooth, grey bark,
its very roots
grasping deep
into our dark soil,

and these glowing, green apples
I will make bare and white and moist
a love offering like perfect wine,
and your taste will delight
in the sweet, green love
of the earth.

Thursday, July 17, 2014

The Russian Army Gathers at the Ukrainian Border

armies in the night, steel
wheels scrape
the sacred earth.

Gogol once rode here, troika
flying over drifts, wind
blistering his open lips
as laughing he drew in
the Russian cold.

So many dead souls,
to be bought and sold . . .

for Russian tanks.

Wednesday, July 16, 2014

Breaking Silence

It is not speaking that breaks our silence, 
but the anxiety to be heard. Thomas Merton

In chilled twilight swells
the chorus overwhelming
echoing passion,

half of water, half  
of leafy bank, the night they
fill with lusty will,

persistent, straining
these marshland poets converge, 
anxious to be heard.

Monday, July 14, 2014

After Viewing Helnwein's Epiphany II

mouths agape,
they gaze.       

They don’t see her ivory breasts.

Gleaming virginity
eludes Aryan dreams
as she presents them with their

With shadowed arm,
in the harsh glow of
he teaches them to 

They cannot know
how quickly falls
blackest pall.

Image: Gottfried Helnwein, Epiphany II, deYoung Museum, San Francisco