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.

Summer Forest

Summer plays with you in the forest, running mad in a meadow, hide and seek with a creek, foot race with a river. There are times when you’ll lose the summer’s sun, under deciduous and evergreens. But you will turn a corner, run into…

Witches

Along the upper stream, in the summer mountains, the witches watch. Back in the city, they call them old growth. Each one has their own assortment of spells. Once you learn that fact, you realize why the forest looks as it does And if…

August 17th, 2019, Portland Oregon

I just want my coffee and a blueberry muffin. Don’t close shop yet, I’ll give you a good tip. You’re afraid, I can see it in your eyes, you want to leave, and you will leave, I have to arrive. You see, I’m the…

No Dreaming Required

She said we never reach the river we dream of. Never. Yet, she’s there, roasting marshmallows, gutting fish, keeping dry inside a tent. Perhaps, she’s forgotten how a wild river feels along the soles of her feet. Its cold water, during the hottest days,…

The Small River

Although I haven’t seen the small river yet… the one tucked back in the Coast Range, I know the trees will come up to its edge, some will lean too close, arching over the water. Ferns will dot its shores, trailing back to darker…

The High Desert

The cougar is up high in a yellow pine, hidden. I only see his misplaced paw print, formed when the mud was thick last spring. Now, the trail has dried into cracks, wrinkles in the earth, his movement of the past solidified. He won’t…

My Father’s Mouse

—-“Is it her singing that enchants us or is it not rather the solemn stillness enclosing her frail little voice?” -Franz Kafka I know the place he visits…those melodies. Songs like children that make sure you never forget your heart. I’ve tangled with them,…

Ripple

Branches, once a small bridge, lie over missing mud, lose their original meaning. Now, a hard turf sits like a soft concrete, an uneven glaze dried upon them. The branches are caked, bricks in dirt, an ancient architecture. I see the trail, in its…

Readers

There are the flash fiction folks, the poetry peeps,  long read lingerers, essay sippers, quote queers, novel nuts, the journalist jackals…sci fi sympathizers, romance unrequited rejects, the mystery mongers, the New York old-timers, speculative spectators, fantasy freaks, comic-con artists, and the not-so-young adult Harry…

Baskett Slough

There’s so many speaking, not wanting to give up the slough. They’ve had it for the entire winter… to themselves Chickadees, common nighthawks, grebes, sneaky rails and coots.   The marsh, still cold…wet…wants to capture my clumsy steps. Grasses hide the outer rim of…

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