4E8DDD8C-C70C-465E-9B3F-FA5B9609FF46You recall a cabin on the edge of town
in woods of alder and oak

There were big windows on every side
and a porch stretched around
like a loose fitting belt
just barely keeping things in

sometimes it was a stepping stone to the world
and sometimes it was a moat keeping things out

You recognize it
because it was your house
and a life was built there
once upon a time

And on the porch you recall
there was an old table
crooked, but round and steady

And Love was on the table
resting shiningly

and whenever the front door cracked open
it flooded in like dawn

Sometimes you noticed—
other times not

Each morning you raced to all the Theres
trying to earn your belongingess
of an eager world wanting proof

And when you returned later
the porch and the table
were still there

and when you cracked the door
to the home you built

sometimes you noticed
the light pouring in and sometimes not

When dusk settled in
for its daily prayer

Love became the moon
illuminating parts of the cabin
that even the sun can’t reach

and flowed through the window
silhouetting a figure curled up
before the fireplace—
a dog or a wolf—
your memory isn’t clear

But then a particular morning came
after a long, winter night—
that kind that is both cold and cozy
and full of memories and rest and safety—
a morning that greeted you differently than others.

You remember because the door wouldn’t close
and after a while you didn’t want it to close

abhorring a vacuum
the light couldn’t help itself
and went swimming through all the rooms

and instead of rushing to all
the Theres of the world
you paused on the porch
noticing something
out of the corner of your soul

And pulling a chair
up to that crooked table

you broke your fast
and had a morning meal with Love

🌏One of 75 poems in my book Re-Membering: Poems of Earth and Soul, published by Wild Nature Heart Press, available on Amazon. 🤠🙏



9A3B849B-A6CA-43C5-8E7A-C6F0F31F80A6I walk through the rooms of night
and arrive at a dawn clipped
with forgetfulness

With moons and death
in my pockets
and full of winter shred

I notice my bare feet are numb
and without purpose

Yet my tracks in the snow
mark my path from somewhere

And though it feels cold
a trickle of blood melts into
the stark white
evidencing its warmth
convinced it is life

Some big heart must be leaking.

I’ve even forgotten the premise
of yesterday’s grand feast

And tomorrow is so far away
I cannot even feign to paint hope
on my eyelids
scarred from memory’s frost

Why can’t I find today?

Did they even put one on
or have they too forgotten?

Have I misplaced it
or did the storm steal it away?

No matter, the time has come
to empty my pockets
and join the ranks
of the zombie parade

To have succumbed, finally, not
to some bold virus,
but to the utter

Not having a mirror, I cannot see
but if I were to guess the shape of my eyes
the left would be nowhere
and the right would be an empty cup

Have I misplaced them
or did some sly storm steal them away?

Bookends and In Between

40620D97-85B2-4BB4-900D-4A967B2426F7The bookends of your life
and in between
that one hovering tear
waiting to burn its way
to the surface
all these years

Those lips from which issued
what surprising tulips
what jagged rocks

Those holy hungers
in between
the prelude and the snapping shut

Those reconstructed memories
and silent demolition of darkest nights
but forgetting nothing

The bookends of your life—
Bright unknowing yowl on one side
A quiet familiar yielding on the other

New Show: Ducks on the Wind

A28029C9-B324-4251-B144-C816D7AF76BDI’ve been watching this new show:
Waves on Water, Ducks on the Wind

Such realistic characters
you don’t even think they’re actors

When the coyote comes down to the water
to drink at dusk
and otters swim upstream
you believe them
and can really relate

Because really, who hasn’t been there?

I hope they continue it for another season.

They ended with a cliff-hanger, literally–
a man was on a cliff
hanging over the water
writing this poem.

Sunken Ship

C843ED64-8BC4-4274-9977-1FB27CCEE3B6According to a rusted iron voice
lodged in her throat
It might not have been good for her
to be a first-class passenger
on the one she didn’t board

The one that came and left
that was left floating cold
After harnessing all the wild winds
to find a safe harbor

That tried to dock without a clearance
or so much as a passport

That one sunk
on a strange and snowy night
joining all the others

and everyone knows—even hearts that play on Sundays—
that the bottom of the sea is cruel


F8ABE9F9-F6CA-4FCB-9DC7-F912EE7BD0FAThe emergences are conducting
their own journeys—
Wisdom teeth burrow out
into the world
Bodies are seized by monumental clouds
and the eyes of water click open
gazing up at the strangest birds

It happens whether I’m awake
or asleep—
the boletes pop their sex
through the earthy duff
ferns fiddle out their winter tunes

Venus rises as
bulky dreams sail to sea
and both come back to port for resupply

Regardless of my north or south
or my looking here or there
the flakes assemble themselves
as if by a big magnet

Here, hair and scents
shove themselves towards others
Concrete curbs and foreign faces,
no trespassing signs and tree trunks
all become mirrors and allies
without any effort

Things plant themselves almost everywhen—now and now

Even now, inner reds of bones
and severe destinies all blunt
and bountiful
like shadows grow, as hail
forms and falls and fades

Like all the other beings in me
who stage their plays
on well-stretched sets
without a script

But that one in the dark cloak
hovers along the ridge
pointing his finger at me

If I run I’m doomed.

If I catch his kiss,
I join the ranks of resplendents
emerging like all the rest—
unwilled yet meant