Monthly Archives: February 2022

The World is Yours

Locked in wood stocks
the world bound and wound up
             spinning at the whim of a child’s hand
an expectant finger
             waiting for a place to land.

             Like spearmen to a charging horse
the blow lands and stops it dead
a digit stalled sets the course.

In that space dreams are made;
             a poor facsimile of an immutable thing
                           quieted by innocence
                                        inquisitiveness
                                        inspiration
                                        imagination
             and thus made immutable again.

The world in a child’s mind is but a word
             until a place is named
         held down
   and claimed for their future self

Icarus

Where does it all end?
these places that rise over the mountainside
speak of visions that call from on the other side
but still we are left here to descend.
When we climb those monstrous places
we find terrible things that hunt us down.
Like shook rocks tumbling to the ground,
we are a disaster fleeing from hidden faces.

Have they seen to the world beyond?
Adopted the task to keep us at bay
as if those fruits were too sweet for us
and this is how they respond.
or is it something more to keep us away?
Is the rest of it all disastrous?

The Mountains are Silver with Winter’s Leavings

  Black pines                         the moon weeps
to see them drag that thing screaming
                           a bundle of noise
             given agency in sound
                           such luxuries are deceiving

                           Red lights│
                                        blue│
                           silver strobes of tinsel

                          The colors slip over the tilled snow
             like a long gown dragged over the stairs
they whisper beneath the fugue of fear
             those concerned cries calling out for a close ear
                           for someone who cares.

But the sound is too loud
             it bludgeons empathy

Pity the trees that must stay
             to witness such horrors
                           ever protesting in the wind
                                        but unable to look away.

English Channel in Late Spring

A cold wind is blowing – across blue mysteries
where fabled depths are made – with dreadful histories
the fog that hides our shores – honest beyond distance
reminds us there is more – than water’s resistance

Those sunken tragedies – speak to us in the mist
like lost souls rekindled – struggling to persist
to have their stories told – in hidden waves crashing
a song of desperate need – sung with somber splashing

Gulls and hearts hear those words – cry out in harmony
though the mind binds their mouths – and call it larceny
Why should time take those things – we enjoy in life now
and give them to the past – that we have disavowed?

Those far off shores stay hid – behind veils of regret
while we must remain here – on all our sides beset
by the antiquities – of an empire long dead.
From those sober ashes – we always look ahead.

An Offering

It’s warm here
faces illuminated by fire
             sharp snaps
    conversations are held tightly to the chest
words swelling behind loving arms
     offered only to the pyre.

To celebrate in orange, red and blue
             you must sacrifice the simple things;
the wood doesn’t know its potential
             until put to heat,
                           only then is it released
                                        unfurled.

In time it may turn to ash and embers
                  but those embers will keep through the night.
Keep them close until dawn’s light breaks,
             to be reminded.

Inspiration

Immeasurable
             though wanting so badly to be defined

Does definition ever really help a thing
             or is it the act of being refined
suddenly less than what it had been all this time?
             This page was once porcelain potential
                           poised for possibilities

             now it is scarred
permanently not a million other things
Defined
             measured
                           caged

             How many worlds
                           we turn to ash
to fill a blank page.

The Frightful Things

Shh, be still now, or they’ll hear you,
at first they were just loud and mean
preaching gospel, angry or obscene
we thought they’d pass back into the blue
Shh, be still now, or they’ll hear you.

but they came from older things
long dormant, though well maintained machines
and without challenge their power grew and grew
shh, be still now, or they’ll hear you.

Enfield, NH

The wind is howling
white noise
             percussion against the window pains
the sound outside fighting to get in

             Could it be the warmth of the fire?
                           the dead trees split and parched
                                        combust and conspire
             to put the whole place to flames
if only they could
             transcend the bricks between them.

Some are born to burn
             others are made to build

Still others are outside
                           in the moonlight
             battling with the turmoil

Silence can be so loud in an empty house
             too afraid to burn.

The Burden

Against my reasoned sanity
I’ve kept the body tucked away
gathering its own history
consigned to resign the day
to keep my concerns at bay;
ignore the rotting sacrifice
to spite the stench of decay,
(old milk and allspice)
from behind the heating device.

When I wake it is there staring,
much of the face devoured by mice,
it feels like the fires of hell blaring.
maybe it’s the radiator,
our resentful mediator.