I never hear them when they speak
only hours later
in the painfully lit basement of my home
with earphones and patience
do their words reach me
such was the case last October
I was driving through Wilderness, Virginia
for the first time and happened to pass
Saunders Field and caught sight of the plaque
that stood at the bottom of the hill
and a trail that led into the woods
where the fierce skirmishes took place
it was a bit chilly and windy
and the road nearby was busy with passing cars
not an ideal place for an EVP session
but I felt compelled to try
and walked the edge of the woods
then a short portion of the trail
I asked many questions directly to anyone
who may be listening
'How many souls perished here?'
'Are you one of those souls?'
'Did you suffer?'
'Why do you stay or visit this place?'
as usual, I heard no voices during the 18 minutes
of questioning
however, the presence was undeniable
I was not alone here
this I knew
on the way back down the hill to leave
I reached out one final time;
'I have about 20 seconds left, so if you'd like
to say something, please say it now'
again I heard nothing, turned the recorder off
and departed

it was several days before I could return home
and review my recording
but my curiosity as always
grew stronger the longer I had to wait
I was disappointed as I began to listen
nothing heard as each minute passed
only the whisper of wind and cars
until I came to my final question in those last moments...
'I have about 20 seconds left, so if you'd like
to say something, please say it now.'

'Leave me under the ground........human'

My heart
has cracked open
like the most
fragile of
elusive
eggs
viscous fluid
drips d
            own
upon the plate
filled with
fissures,
spidercracks that
threat to
quake into
seismic
         measures
and eventually
piece off into
oblivion
and only when
I can finally
unfold myself
from these
underwater
embryonic bends
fetal stretches
and folds
that never end
only then my arms
reach out
into the night
searching
and,
in tiniest of beams,
in one fell stroke
of midnight kismet
I find you
around me
in colored chromium
wrapping me up
headstrong,
filling my
wounded sutures
with
     liquid
gold

this heart, my heart,
beats in poetry
because it doesn’t know
how else to beat,
because it doesn’t know
how else to feel,
because it doesn’t know
how to let out everything i keep inside.
this heart beats in poetry
for you,
for me.

tree spirits beckoned
through pools of dawn's blushing glow
trees silvered seeping with soft musk and hazel
their lilting throngs of whispering tilleul arms
splitting misted air into swirls of hushed enchantment
pressed into the grass with strokes of emerald shade
etched into that twisting turret
lines
a hundred
each a miniature scroll of letters and words
blazing through sap and bark and bramble
each a sample of language
the ancient and vast
ink of sun's blood, gilt and dragon's fire

We're born free, all of us
Some don't believe it
Some try to take it away
To hell with them
Mountains of fire
Water like ice
Lay your eyes on them
And you'll know what freedom is
It's worth fighting for
Fight to live
Risk it all for even a glimmer of real freedom
It doesn't matters what waits outside the gate
Or what comes in
It doesn't matter how cruel the world can be
Or how adjust
Fight
Fight
Fight

Poetry is
A Wise  giver's  guide
To understanding
And enjoyment