Category: Poetry

Here is where my deepest heart lies. These writings emanate from the many times when my passion hits the bottom and other times where it seems to fly on wings. To solace myself, I go to the woods on deep forest trails, pray to waterfalls, look over valleys, and dip my hands in the waters of springs, hoping to soothe myself. Forgive me if I get angry; for at times I’m just plain mad at the world.

Traveling Near the Dark

There’s a quietness about the river broken by a random leap, splash of steelheads. a prairie hawk loses a feather. The natives drink a loud liquor on their fishing platforms, dip nets looking for fish who choose to become parts of ceremonies.   The…

Living With The Volcano

A wide emptiness sits over Spirt Lake from Harry’s Ridge to Harmony Lake Viewpoint. An emptiness of vast distance with stars or sun, clouds and wind…a series of personalities, always in the process of change, threatens to knock all thought out of you. You…

Scapegoat’s Paradox

Holding it in, close, became a strength An essence, a nugget, bloom’s heart Shaped by chinks, cracks, and splits Of a shell you wished was a softer hue.   Relinquished, expelled, produced a body The lucid form of your careful ambiguity From a cold…

Love Letters

She’s a tangent, planting words in wild rows that release constant seeds, adrift, landing upon her skin, a skin she reads to herself. Her heartbreak, an apocalypse of reincarnations, dust on the floor, dry paper, bits, clumps, wheat lost from the chaff, molded to…

Footprints

These cold hills stand unconcerned of what walks beneath them. Snow, that made it through the day’s rain, will be covered by night’s newest layer of white. But here today, the rain collects upon the trail. Footprints lie scattered. There are recent ones, still…

Naming Creeks

The creek isn’t cruel by not knowing my name. Even though, I have known its name all my life. On walks, I still follow its voice, soothed by its flow. I won’t ask it to know me. I’m okay with being an eternal stranger…

Wet Pine Needles

Running the brittle floor—upon leaves settled to soil. With mild hands wandering—through air and pressed sunlight. Becoming branches—breaching the film of moist sky. Clinging to winter’s sun—lucent thoughts, fictile. Moving with the wildness—of the warm, fragile body. Its abstractions of molds—ravines, dips, and death….

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