Symbols of Love

There is a language dead
that grips the heart
from deep within its crypt.

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Apples

If I gaze at an apple
and smoke with a shaman
who plucks with bended knee
the apple red of famous mythology

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Smoke Signals

Time cares not what the clock will say
of the foul pit of yesterdays,
because a truth strikes its chord

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Relatively Big

They are very small things, the small plankton,
The atoms of oxygen, the words said

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The Word and the Blade

I have owned words,
owned them all,
owned them as a suit–
impenetrable.

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Attempting as many types of line breaks as I can in as short of poem as possible.

The poem breaks
with rhyme or makes
it’s way across the page

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A Pharaoh’s Rise – Revise #1

Among the world’s most pressing ruins
artifacts come rising as phoenixes
parting their form from the fierce driven wind
and sand that whirls around in its dying
hour of enjambment with earth and sky.

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Poets Bend Your Lines

We poets do not live
within the confines of margins;
poetry itself lives

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The Death of Bees

itness now the death of buzzing bees,
the bloodbath human and the brood’s disease–
witnessed upon the earth, in wild and wood,

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Consuming Us

All beauty has been taken.

The natural is no longer allowed
To be as it is without filter.

The body is no longer a temple;
It’s a canvas on which we paint.

The soul is relegated to metaphor
And no longer allowed to spread
to the hearts of others.

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Five Miles

She says she is always there,
and I am always here,
so how is it
that five miles can feel
an oceans worth of divide.

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Collapse

I do not wish to be
the voice of the Bering Sea’s struggle,
nor would I deny the plight
of sea ice and polar bears at once living and dying for home.

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We Break

We break
as the newspaper
and anchorman read
teleprompter like,

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Cactus Hides

There are people with cactus hides
that walk across the desert sand
where others would
if not for fear that they would die.

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Easter Eggs

I want you to carry my eggs;
I trust you and the care that you take,
yet I know that you are afraid,

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Hellhounds

Standing at the crossroads
I heard the devil sing his song
and he tuned my guitar,

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Wooden Frowns

Nothing is more disappointing,
nothing so uncared-for
as one that knows let down,

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The Changing of the Leaves

Fall is a dream.
It comes the east,
where people dare not dwell,

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Socialism is a Sickness

Do not let the wind towers make you sick;
it’s hate and fear that resonates with men
and makes demons of rotors spinning on the wind
there’s no sickness, except men mid-panic,

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Long Live Our Lady

We need the Old Colossus now
with it’s defiant blazing torch
as architype for our goddess

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