The Ocean Welcomes Me Back

She knows me.

Though, I haven’t seen

All that she is…..

All her anger and angst

Frozen at times, treacherous.

I know her

From the safety of my footing.

She can pull me, She pulls me, I am pulled

Not by ebb, but by longing

A craving for our meeting.

She allows me to see her.

I am but painted doll

Easily tripped into a fall.

We are cyclic, together.

Friends as we are


I see her placid face

Fierce, reflecting sky.

Her cheeks aged, rippled

As they were at the beginning.

She’s my crone

My witch of calm

Curled slightly

With wavy hair


The straightening of her tides.

Her voice, mesmerized magnetic

To my metal ears.

Grounded by emotion

She nudges me

To a rhythm depth tone.

My womb vibrates

With her motion

At the same time

I am her birth.


Her movement is mine

I am she, like her,

The invertebrate

With liquid body

Skin of whatever color

You wish to call me

We are deep in wrappings

Around dense mineral

Earthen cultrate creatures

Terrestrial mud makers

That simple creation act

Pottery, clay, and figure

Shaped by moisture

Solidified by solar storm.


I feel like she is forever

Whose depths

I know by kindred.

We raise our spirits

(For me, this once)

To mist and cloud

Transform, evaporate

Until our salt

Is yanked from our souls

And we fall

To new fawns

of phosphorescence



If I were to say

“Listen to her”

You would have

Already heard

Come at a Price

Marquês de Pombal

The amount of alcohol in her drink.

The loudness of her laugh.

Soft shirt sleeves, brushing raw, coded skin.

Tender angst made her…

Makes her

Voice rise

Like dinnertime restaurant dishes.

All she said, forgotten.

All she would have said, remembered.




The High Lakes

The high lakes, frozen, clear,

Distort reflections of the mountain.


Old men with trekking poles

Filter through the forest.


All with some form of Achilles

And Homeric hunger pangs.


Drawn to recite soliloquies

To the unmoving cold.


Return to the parking lot

To winter tires and snow chains.






She sets a folded towel upon cool sheets, her ass makes a depression on the mattress.

Silence is never a full-proof method of understanding each other, even if hands are involved.

They touch, then they talk. Talking is never a full-proof method of…

His leg dangles off her bed. She gets up, opens the closet door.

There’s a mirror attached to the back of the closet door. She sees my reflection and doesn’t know it’s her. She touches the mirror, thinking, as she always has, that it will lead somewhere.

She leaves fingerprints.








The Town That Fell Into The Sea

The ocean hides, sitting low like the winter sun.

Its sound seeps through knolls

Through sand, vine, and footprints

Through trees rooted in confused snarl

Threading lightly between our anonymous hands

Our faces washed away


Until the lights of Highway 101

Reattach themselves to the coast range.



(Photo: Reflection from Tillamook Bay, during the oncoming night in the fog)






Above Multnomah Falls

This warm winter makes the creek scream like spring.

I dip my hand in, as far in as my long sleeves let me

Smooth stones, slick, cold life, years in my hands.

My fragile blood beats, knows the water by heart.


It’s good to be wary of the speed of the current

where it licks up upon the shore, sure feet are never a given.

It can bite you, gently, or with unforgiving teeth.

Its noise covers all voices, who’ve come beyond the falls


I head for snow level, it’s high for this time of the year.

Pine needles dot its surface like a mild sprinkling of spice.

Towhees, ravens, and buntings call with haunting songs

An echo between their voices, moves with the forest, downhill.


There, below, near the river and I-84, the creek is a maiden jumping.

Thousands of selfies, one tripod, a few point and shoots

attempt to catch her in the act of hitting the ground.

She refuses to pose.






The Wind Chases Feral

The wind is amplified by the valley.

A sign, to go no further.

This wind searches ravines, ravages tops of evergreens, escapes up through mountains, lets loose upon a cold sky.

A harsh exhale, a winter bite, snickering past sunrise, diving into sunset, searching for the ocean.

She knows it. It’s a part of her.

She rides…runs. Her scent slips ahead of her.

Then, a lull, a hush, which become wishes, thoughts of the dullness of heat, of a soft warm glow, a purr between rattling storm windows, a cup of soup.

But these are old memories and she’s not sure they’re a part of her like the wind.

Here, she knows she’s one with dead leaves, the falling of rain, the touch of snow. She’s been here forever or so it seems.

But cold is cold. She’s argued with storms more times than she can count. And she must sleep.

The night is a shifty creature.

She lies upon a bed of ferns, pulling dirt, leaves, moss over her body, a live burial, her ritual, to hide from the wind, to become the wild dark. That’s the only way to become invisible.

Her fingers ache.

Tomorrow, she thinks. Tomorrow when the wind dies and the sun stings the forest, she will find her way.




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