Tuesday, August 31, 2010


"It is born"

Here I came to the very edge
where nothing at all needs saying,
everything is absorbed through weather and the sea,
and the moon swam back,
its rays all silvered,
and time and again the darkness would be broken
by the crash of a wave,
and every day on the balcony of the sea,
wings open, fire is born,
and everything is blue again like morning.

-Pablo Neruda

Wednesday, August 4, 2010

My Hoard

All the Hail Marys
rotting with the refuse in
gutters now strewn
with once holy thoughts.

All the wishes whispered
in night's dark camp
now hanging from limbs
like last season's nest.

All the pocket treasures
buried deep in badger burrows
waiting to sprout
thrift stores of broken marbles
and balls of string.

All these enshrined things
now turned to dust
but you still live in me
inciting sacred lines
and nightly wishes.
You are my pocket treasure
growing tall,
hoarded safely in soft hands.

Monday, August 2, 2010


I am the sound,
the violence of clapper
and bell curve
contained in wave after wave
of shape
moving through you
becoming new
and changing the tide.

I am the echo of love
in flesh and blood
and the tear of time
in memory's wake
because nothing more remains.

I am every shape,
every vibration not seen
with human eyes.

I am everything that was,
I am all that is left,
I am that which is unborn,
the sound wave of creation.