Tuesday, December 9


Legends told in rising suns hear nightingales cry in the dawn;
The backbones of surrounding hills release themselves in shuddering yawns.

Blood of ages sear the sky as sweeping sand dunes glitter gold;
Eyes of strangers soak up light and reflect yearnings young and old.

In the distance, mountains merge with hazes gray and frosted stone;
There is no mem’ry in any age of stealing the story for one’s own.

Friday, December 5

Pea Pod

‘Tis true, ‘tis true,
I’m not sure what to do.
My brain has turned
To a puddle of goo.
Oh why do such things
Pester me?
It seems I’m a pod
Without a pea!

Monday, December 1

Milk and Cream

you frighten me, you small hard thing
hand-in-hand so secret press
you all soft and comforting
feathers, wool, and cotton dressed

you idiot, you thing sublime
freckles, ink, and form insane
conversation turpentine
always belching, singing, playing

you in my brain, you rooted firm
and stars and light make foreign dream
nothing happens dizzy worm
grinds me into milk and cream