T-Thronging poets are welcomed at the doorway
H-Hundreds do shuffle in by night and by day
E-Eliot York hath provided a platform for display

H-How fantastic it's been to stumble upon this space  
E-Every conceivable style of poetry is seen in the place
L-Love and all emotion put in front of a person's face
L- Lasting impressions left for our minds to e'er trace
O-Our world poetic fraternity gathering in an embrace

P-Prolific amounts of verse offered to the page
O-Over the years some hath been verily sage
E-Engaging with fellow poets on a large stage
T-Themes and philosophies begetting of gauge
R-Robust the giving which occurs at this silage
Y-Young and older writers inside a vast cage

S-So let us all put our pens in creative mode
I-Invest HP with the fruits of your brain's node
T-Thousands of readers will enjoy every code
E-Endless lines we can all scribe into a fine ode

I want to do something with the wind.
Make it into something my rib cage can sing.
I want to go where it goes
all at once all the trees bowing
not to me but to he who passes through me.

I created a joy stronger
than the sway of happy and sad.
I saw the moon part the trees,
then sit in their leaves,
then sink
              lost in their past.

The wind blew all night.
Still the mountain stands.

The wind blows yellow
the wind blows blue green
the wind blows night
back into day.

The wind is a thought
thought long ago
that caught on like wild fire
and still thinks it blows.

I say the wind but I mean something else.
I may mean your hair, how the grasses
draw inspiration from it for flowers.
All these things are arranged as the wind leaves them.
No matter the order we take them they lead us back around.

Think of a word
         then just a letter
                      then let the letter
          be just an outline
with more space
          inside it than out.
Then let the wind
         come and rearrange
                      the emptiness without
         with the emptiness within.
This is where we begin.

It’s work, this wailing,
a daily occupation.
Alongside the light-rail
A ghost bike, a placard,
a quickening in the blood.

Murmur, breathe myself to sleep,
fleece this feeling,
Blue skies somewhere
and yeah, life goes on.

I struggle to wake,
my sharpest knife
slides along this peach’s stone,
scoop this flesh, devour.

Crepuscular light,
Fecundity of life,
Lacerate this daytime
cut through with dim.

Celerity of dusk,
and with it this gloaming,
My quidnunc neighbor
seals ear to wall to trace
my hitching breaths from air.

But it’s tomorrow now
and it is warm in Paranoia Park.
This violinist, though hardly Paganini,
embroiders sound onto sound.

His bow draws a frisson
along my spine, my nerves
His strings, vibration,
shimmering, a shock, a flush.

This moment: a reprieve,
my coffee break from grief.
All the trees are turning orange.
The days all turn to sleep.

the leaf
fell from a branch
as it did it twirled
to the pivot of a light breeze
when it settled on the park's verdant lawn
a jogger kicked it along
for a minute or two
then came to rest
the leaf