When beauty gets down low
To speak to me
I think of you
Neath that shady tree

The chlorophyll packs the leaves so tight
The veins resist with all their might
To store life for the months to come
They greedily swallow the light

I remember laying in the grass
Our eyes on each other still
Your smile matched your pretty dress
The sun transited the hill

We didn't notice it's passage
Till we felt the chill
Till all was shadow
We stood and turned without a word
Our last day on the meadow.

They will tell you there is a right way.
They will hand you a torch and call it the sun.
They will roll their words in raw linen and whisper:
"This is what poetry is meant to be."

And you will nod.
Because they have made it so that not nodding feels like blasphemy.

But listen—
the ink does not check your credentials.
The meter does not ask if your suffering is organic.
A line does not collapse because it was crafted instead of bled.

They will tell you a poem must be naked, barefoot, aching—
as if there is no beauty in a well-cut suit.
They will decry the temple and build a pulpit in its ruins,
preaching freedom in a voice that allows no dissent.

Good poets are cult leaders,
and the first rule of the cult
is that they are not one.

So write the sonnet, carve the sestina,
sculpt the page in iambic steel.
Or break it, shatter it, scatter its bones—
but let no one call your wreckage untrue.

And if they do,
smile.
Because poetry does not kneel to priests.

I watch the harbor through the falling snow
the sky and sea form one vast, gray tableau
the sun is nothing but a weak, background glow
the scene draws me, as if hypnotically.

Five mile’s lighthouse warnings go unvoiced
its strobes not lashing out, so what’s its point
it stands majestically but disappoints
replaced electronically

A tiny lobster boat makes its landward way
towards the inlet from the wider channel bay
a powdery blizzard is underway
which melts into the mirror sea.

Ospreys still hunt round the lobsterman's pride
snowflakes stain them as they soar and glide
other seabirds huddle side by side
shivering and crowing lividly.

Through the narrows the lonely boat steams
past icy Luddington Rock and East Breakwater's breech
its berths and moorings, within minutes reach
and sadly, it’s time for me to leave.
.
.
Songs for this:
Far Far Away (Charles Tone Mix) [feat. Brenda Boykin] by Tape Five
Nobody by Mitski

It's been almost ten years since
I wrote that violence was imminent
The guns in our classrooms, and hate towards the immigrants.
We're more divided now than ever before
And the horrible future ahead means war.

It obvious that we haven't been studying because,
1.5° Celcius doesn't sound like such a scary thing until,
you see the flames coming towards you down the hill,
And there's not enough water in the reservoirs to win.

So, we're cutting funding here and there
Anything to avoid taxing the billionaires
What good is an education anyway now
That AI can take all those dreams away

We offshored the factories, might as well send off the tech
We'll ban the apps we don't like, so we can get a bigger check
Tarrif the food supply, and deport all the farmhands
Jack up the rent in cities, and buy all the private land

The wheat will stop growing soon, and The white house is a circus tent, so
When there's no bread left to break, then
What's the point of these sycophants?

I love the feeling of being in love
More than I love the love itself
Maybe it’s because I’ve always loved people better than they love me
Or perhaps it’s because the heart can feel better than the eyes can see
I love being in love like a little kid waiting for Christmas morning
Or being cozy at home, looking out the window when it’s storming
A soothing feeling, exciting, yet calming.
It’s comforting knowing that nothing can be done to change where I am
And that’s okay cause I don’t want life to be any different than this
To touch the palm of your hand
To feel the electricity in your kiss
And even if the stars never align
In my heart, I am sure to find
A place where I can go to climb
The heights of your love