wonder if
raccoons wander the beach after dusk and leave pawprints in the ebb tide
wonder if
it’s sacred to step through the curled & looping mystic symbols left by children in the sand
Aaron and Hands
The Earth turns slow sometimes
You can lie on your back in the night
Look at the stars and witness the curve in the sky
Moving fast and slow all at once, ever present and very far away
Time inching, unwilling
Nothing moves quickly here, under it all, the whole of everything above us
[Read More]
Richard Brautigan poem
There is darkness on your lantern and pumpkins in your wind, and Oh, they clutter up your mind with their senseless bumping while your heart is like a sea gull frozen into a long distance telephone call. I’d like to take the darkness off your lantern and change the pumpkins into sky fields of ordered […]
Butterfly Net’s Catch
Soaking in black raspberry vanilla scented water, classical poetry in song repairs Millie’s parched spirit. Her what the hell is it all about thoughts swirl clockwise — she pokes her big toe in the stopper’s loop pulling upward letting small amounts of water escape. The bathtub’s plumbing makes a ravenous sucking sound.
Crab Pots and Chinook Scales
The sloshing of bloody water from the cutting board
proclaims another crimson muscle-bound Chinook
has given life in the beautiful spectacle of
a carefully-guided filet knife only a salty,
wave-beaten man can sheath on a belt by his side.
One and One
Counting steps one
is open to chaos.
One ankle is sprained
feeding ducks before work.
Then glasses are squashed
during one lame hunt for
the perfect book to wow
a whitewater scholar.
Oregon
This is Oregon
Her coastline a tattered skirt torn from the sea
Stiff boots of stone propping
Up the dear old lady and baring legs of old-growth wood;
Her ferns are showing but she doesn’t mind if you look.
Yea, no
After the last big
speech and debate game
more citizens started saying “Yea, no…”
“Yea, no we ate at McDonald’s.”
“Yea, no he hit a deer on the way to work.”
“Yea, no double binds suck but
whatcha gonna do?
[Read More]
We are gathered
Beloved is the word
we share round
today’s wedding of
reader and poet.
We ring this word
hither and dear
with each waltz
into the microphone.
Unshod
If only man did not tether us
we would fly widdershins,
kick up clods at the sun,
make clouds of turf swirl round our heels.
Instead we pace and crib to get high
in the sterile gold stalls of Olympus.
Here the social feed smells mean
and riders mimic predators.