You are the bastion of mercy;
my armor I adorn
I shall know you as serenity
As silence in the storm.
Jun 25, 2016
Jun 25, 2016 at 5:46 PM UTC
Love, as it happens,
Is not not declared by a thunders strike
But suggested on a whisper
Nor is it bound in its possession
but through those thimbled sips
And parting glances
as you head toward the door
Feb 1, 2016
Feb 1, 2016 at 1:42 PM UTC
Salt. Salt dosed with a hint of peach and hickory
or a cool wind just after Twilight.
A woman lost, spoke from the side street: "What of faith
(even those tagged on the walls of alleys or along abandoned houses)
when the hold of softened hands
are drawn apart as they inevitably are?“
Respond:
But what of the guarded lust of parted lovers
Or the peace of a Sunday waking?
the whispers of things as they tremble by
are the quintessential sip
that faith could only envy.
Jun 25, 2015
Jun 25, 2015 at 12:46 PM UTC
Be there life after death
I shall look for you there
If not, then there too
May 8, 2015
May 8, 2015 at 4:18 PM UTC
An autumn whisper
is the sleepy cicada
of a season lost
May 8, 2015
May 8, 2015 at 4:11 PM UTC
Our histories words all but lost
like tender garden yield to frost
so fallow, feign your fettered fear
that surer stalks can pierce the air.
Jul 25, 2014
Jul 25, 2014 at 12:47 PM UTC
Princess of the Tiny Snails
breaks bread with the Lotus and the Shrub.
It is said by some
that she entered the world as a Tigerlilly
and was, by force of will alone, made flesh;
others say she plucks diamonds from raindrops
and places them like dew to leaf at sunrise
such that the earth itself shimmers at her passing.
Princess of the Tigerlilly skin
breathes the thunder from nimbus
her whisper a rolling blur
and shouts are as nova
like the old Gods defied
Jul 25, 2014
Jul 25, 2014 at 12:43 PM UTC
There must be respite in the ebon quake
lids like nightling moths,
fluttered above the littered fields
barren but for the ebb and tide of moonlight
thick as milk.
Feeble grip shakes loose
tossed down below a carbon root
took hold,
a heart in repose
as it would to the sounds
of thunder.
Apr 21, 2014
Apr 21, 2014 at 12:06 AM UTC
On some northern, coastal bay
there is fallen dock
it does not have a name
or appear on any map
save for one
sitting in a bygone gas station
collapsed along a stretch of route 6
This dock, without name,
is often seen
as bundled driftwood
favored neither by the 'gulls nor crane
It is even lazily avoided by fish,
swept by in their eternal procession
toward the sea
It seems as though dock's descent
was a gradual but certain thing
like the bathing of stiff, aged limbs,
perhaps drawn down
by calloused barnacles
grown too thick
But would that this nameless drift
could speak,
it may recount the weight of bearing
some life aloft to cast forth
with the knowledge that
it may not return to shore.
Feb 18, 2014
Feb 18, 2014 at 12:43 AM UTC