Poets are strange – Why can’t they just call the spade a spade? And what’s a rock but rock: sandstone, shale from the tiredness of weather? Coal and limestone, plant and animal dross — but nature wastes nothing. Why do poets look for metaphors under every rock, the walls that hold the creek, earth that… Read More Poets Are Strange
stargazers in furious bloom – vanilla air – are the only flowers that trust me, tell me i am not hopeless; the juice in their veins, the way they gulp the sun and meet my face, their beauty and their business say i don’t need a green thumb and the riotous garden. all one needs… Read More stargazers
Birdless sky swells grey blue against trees that stand like brushes stiff in the cold The penultimate breath of a new earth The dark disappears in a steadfast philanthropy of color: red, orange, rose blush up from the land over lakes and hills and roof slats to tell the inhabitants Night has not prevailed. Earth … Read More A New Earth
If I could I would gather all the words from the wild, pick them like berries and press them into these pages to bleed them, beautiful, into my notebook I would chase syllable streams that refresh dry banks and stop. at the quarry where I will cut confused hands on stone, going… Read More I Would Gather All The Words
It took me over a quarter of a century to realize beauty isn’t something frivolous. The truth still takes my breath away: we need beauty in our life. With no particular aesthetic gift or impulse, I was for much of my life satisfied if my purchases were functional. They didn’t have to be pretty. And… Read More The Obligation of Beauty
this epicurean sea of wildflowers and opus white blossoms stirs beneath a rising day she spills seminal secrets as the bees and winds drive pollen grains and promise past the velvet parting into stigma and style with the marksmanship of knowing. this field, voluminous womb, awash with prose drinks the sun that climaxes overhead. a… Read More field of words
What is it about the year-end that makes us face our fears and disappointments and count our hopes again like pieces of treasure in our palm? The seasons herald change as they fold into one another, but the calendar shows us we don’t cycle in place. We wheel forward—birthdays, anniversaries, “three years since”—all touchstones across… Read More We Dream Again
under a scant sun winter throws his brume of snow. fields lie vanquished in lambent splendor and robed in frost, trees stand in mute glory under his imperial breath creation covets the hearth her haven, barren slumber: a bold consummation of autumn’s bounty the earth waits, a sleeping beauty ’til spring breaks upon the white… Read More Sleeping Beauty
i chew the leaves of my poem they fan green and spirited in the height of their hour veins visible like these that inscribe my hand, run with the life of dreams that have nowhere to go but back down to the branch to the root you don’t see look: their asymmetry of being red… Read More the leaves of my poem
A Holistic Journey 