I love when colored salmon spawn And leap with ease over towns on high With rippling waves and glistening sheen How they bound between these rocky outcrop clouds And spread their whispy tendril fins Across the cascading pinkish sky I love the night just before it breathes Quiet as waivering gills unseen When the salmon color seeps into the sky
A dawning of Spring, The tree’s pollen eye-dust spreads free. White paint-stroke wind swirls and sways through the plains, the grass kindly greets in sighing retreat.
Blue skies softly shelter, filling the days with their comforting hues. Sparsely dotted roaming cotton clouds dance as the yellow Sun yawns and spreads its rays, rousing the slumbering bear from his winter den.
Sounds of the hen’s call awaken, a signaling for paper to meet pen. The heart swells and empties just as the flower’s buds lazily fall open at the bidding of the Sun’s young light.
An open world, the never ending wood, A night river flows just beyond the bend, full of salmon fighting upstream from the wrong end. A tender letter penned but not sent. A winged man smiles and whispers visions, guiding my ascent.
Unfortunately, a penned letter is not always sent, just as all the hopeful salmon do not make it back to their springing den. Some sneak by and continue their uphill fight but others are clawed and left stuck within the bear’s teeth, writhing in defeat.
On rainy days I look up poems set in Seattle, then look back at the rain set against the window
I imagine the water was carried here from the shores of their bay across Pike Place, through Belltown, in buckets they use to carry Pacific salmon off fishing boats, or in lidded Styrofoam bowls used to take out clam chowder
I practice walking in this manner, sans umbrella, through the parking lot of a South Florida strip mall.
When I reach the 24-hour Dunkin Donuts, past the laundromat and the check cashing store, I channel my inner Seattleite: poised in wet socks, unrushed as the sips they take from their mugs when its **** pouring outside
I renounce sugary accoutrements and have what they're having: Black coffee with a splash of rain, A balance perfected on their slanted hill streets that breed more poets per capita than anywhere else in the country
Vegas can have its mirages in the desert San Francisco, its gold bridge
I think I should just have this coffee, and this rainy day as the poem it is.
To everyone born to this world with nothing No social code, allowed to risk it all with no bluffing While others get bored being handed their every desire I spent my childhood days building dirt empires Dreaming of the molds I was not cut out of When I'd sit down with fellow folks talking of my aspirations Most just laughed, brushed me off like I had no chance So I fueled my fire with life's frustrations My life works may never something tangible But if you read every chapter of me, your hands would overflow
This world doesn't seem to understand my twisting mind But at least I never looked at my dining room, Thinking it's a great place to hang a clothes line I'm taking jabs at my past but never dwell in that hollow home Past these child eyes how much of me do you really know If you were me, if you had to be, disrespectfully some say they'd **** themselves Take that negativity and raise myself onto a higher shelf
I find my best inspiration in music and staring out at stars one of my favorite pieces I ever wrote was just about passing cars I'm scared that people are being cookie cut all the same In a Stepford manner more messed up than Gerald's game They hand you charts and define you in a statistic Like they already threw you the ball but you missed it I'm here to breath life into a deflated man's scene Don't let these demons destroy your darkest dreams Spark a light onto who you want to be In a sea of fish, be the one swimming up stream
midnight, floodlights purse seiners packed in tight anchored on the fragile shoal shadows play on the white wall dune grass, needle, leaf of tree gallows rising from the sea back and forth the tenders run salmon gathered one by one