Thursday, February 23, 2017

Indigene's Hand

Out of the hollows of abandoned bones
a liminal hand strikes in stone
the silent pulse between dusk and night
there carves the image
of sound and light.

Saturday, April 16, 2016

Turtles Flying

It Isn't A Dream

Fog in the brain, body, spirit. It isn’t unpleasant. It might even be sustaining.  What is missing is that edge of reach, that window maybe doorway - sometimes sharply defined sometimes liminal and discreet. What is missing is the thought that is a blade cutting into the fog which cloaks the stars and opens the pi├▒ata-like fruits of creativity hanging always nearby and out jumble ribbons floating like wings to dangle and entice or truly wrap round you and bear you flying beyond all boundaries and edges, dispersing the haze and sharpening the focus unto an intensity beyond anywhere but here, here in this fog. 

The fog is warm, soft, soothing, and everything that is highly sought after when anxious, sleepless, stressed, unable to be. It’s eiderdown to a cold bitter day, it needn't be night. Even so, even so, one shoves stubbornly against the sheltering fog because it is thought one should look sharp and out of that attentiveness shall come...something. Is one afeard that with comfort, creativity shall stall or even die?

Is this similar to an opium dream? Though in an opium dream, one isn’t pummeling and pushing aside the visions to look for a creative spark unless one is insanely driven.

Sunday, March 22, 2015

Calla Lilies

The calla lilies have bloomed early this year,
before the vernal equinox.

Friday, November 21, 2014

Thought forms

To some, I am attached. 
Like cheeky spiders they
drop from the ceiling
without invitation or warning.

Others stand aside,
devoutly shelved next
to venerable old tomes
I may or may not have read.

Friday, February 14, 2014

On Valentine's Day

on a moonlit morning
we'll have a cup of tea...

(to be continued as it is continued
in the morning's moonlight probably)

Saturday, December 21, 2013


here's to a
Happy Solstice
keeping warm
through this longest night.


Saturday, June 22, 2013


words rose from the page like smoke
sweet smoke from an ember tipped wand
scented smoke from a warm glowing ember
chapter upon chapter
the ruby tipped wand
made light of the page
in the unlit room
words uncurled like smoke
caressed the ceiling leaned back
kissed the window

the page turned
 words gripped the page
like tallies of worth
with talons distended
the ceiling fell
in a puff of smoke
a few last wisps 
clung to the glass
of the night darkened window
the ember paled leaving
an ashen tipped stick in its stead