#bounty
tarnished sea salted breathing
seaweed scent pleasing mindscape
sweet invigoration each new tide
May 7
May 7, 2026 at 7:27 AM UTC
Daffs spring yellow
lighting up the grey.
a winters dream.
Apr 9
Apr 9, 2026 at 9:53 AM UTC
#
Poetry is both lighthouse and harbor.
It does not force the journey, nor does it
fill the void of what is unresolved
It stands in its own gravity, unmoving;
Offering only a silent invitation:
Will you Unfold?
There is a craving that walks the shorelines of poetry,
a widow’s walk of those who have not yet learned
how to participate in what they long for.
They circle the docks,
watching the ships come and go,
watching the light shift across the waves,
watching for something that will draw them
back home.
Some mistake the lighthouse for the flame
and rush toward it as if to be consumed,
as if breaking open is the same as being made whole.
But the call is not to burn.
The call is to move toward what moves toward you,
*to become ready for the return
rather than wither within the waiting.*
A moth drawn only to light
will die before it ever understands
what it was meant to become.
But a moth that finds its way to the cocoon
will emerge with wings strong enough
to meet the wind.
This is the choice--
to remain circling, craving, watching
or to disappear into the transformation
that will allow you to stand whole
when the vessel returns.
For he is both the lighthouse and the emerging vessel,
both the safe harbor and the dock,
where the journey finally ends.
And she, in waiting, is not idle..
She does not chase passing figures,
nor fill the silence with lesser pursuits.
She does not betray the longing
with distraction.
She deepens.
She prepares to meet the one
who braved the waves to return.
*And when at last the ship appears,
bathed in the light of its own voyage,
she will not meet him as she was;
.. but as she has Become.*
#
Mar 20, 2025
Mar 20, 2025 at 4:51 PM UTC
I am
the highway tunnels drilled in your gums
from when your baby teeth plucked themselves out.
I am
the **** rotting on the bed,
whose gelatin you flayed off with your rusted spoon.
I am
the accused with his bounty price
plastered across the billboard sign.
I am
the dying fetus
jutting her head outside the womb.
I am these tributaries — these waves that thirst — which, at first glance, don’t connect. In time, they will prove
that humanity has claimed territory in them.
I am the mouth, drooling forth my mountain water.
This larger lake! I shall never see beyond it.
I am not the fifth dimension, where the sky hangs its hook.
So what?
I have its might. I am the colonizer in its territory,
and I claim it.
Apr 18, 2021
Apr 18, 2021 at 5:18 PM UTC
.
Tangles of vine, wisps of thorn,
Roping a rocky face of granite,
High, on a hill are drops of sky,
Green hands cradle purple beads
Of the sun, whose skin is frosted
In water vail, morning days' dew
Has come, birds and bees singing
Songs to hum anew, this offering
All to ancient invitations of spring,
There will be wine and flower laid,
Before rise of moon or day is done.
.
Jul 9, 2020
Jul 9, 2020 at 11:42 AM UTC
.
In spring meadow a new song is—
Laid on an earthly table with birds
To feather nest, breaths remember,
Budding poems of leaves embrace,
All season is watered, warmly held
Dearly, bright and kept into drying
Bouquets. Little creatures—flutter
In concords, humming with breeze
Caught fallows freed into sanctuary
Of bloom and spark, do clearly note
Abundance soon will break, arrived
To reasons that trail green into fires
Of earned, autumnal transcendence,
The flowers of peak, mature fruition.
In a spring meadow, celebrations all
Thrown— confetti let loose by Gods.
.
Feb 26, 2019
Feb 26, 2019 at 2:41 PM UTC
Localize broken eyes,
Fated lies, go retry
Snapping till you awake,
Come back for your own sake,
Testing blows, it's music,
Melodies make me sick,
Hefty stack on the way,
Laughing out, celebrate,
Open skies, nothing new,
Sun outshines all the blue,
Flooded land, rushing green,
Endless too, such a scene,
Fleeing fast, go away,
Made money for the day,
Fortunate, for my head,
Checkmate, kings, i'm not dead
Jan 13, 2019
Jan 13, 2019 at 9:32 PM UTC
I wanted to give a world
But I have only one.
He said the same
So did one that was nearby!
I felt content to give away
Everyone has a world.
Nov 20, 2018
Nov 20, 2018 at 8:07 AM UTC
.
Tangles of vine, wisps of thorn,
Roping a rocky face of granite,
High, on a hill are drops of sky,
Green hands cradle purple beads
Of the sun, whose skin is frosted
In water vail, morning days' dew
Has come, birds and bees singing
Songs to hum anew, this offering
All to ancient invitations of spring,
There will be wine and flower laid,
Before rise of moon or day is done.
.
Jun 5, 2018
Jun 5, 2018 at 3:47 PM UTC
We have the wherewithal
To feed every boy and girl.
We also have the resources
To blow up half the world.
We have the extra cash
To let Congressmen roam
And also full resources
To give everybody a home.
We have plenty of money
To pay countries to like us.
Why can’t we make life
For our own people joyous?
We seem to be able to
Make death machines for all,
Why can’t we create for us
Medicine whose cost is small?
We can afford to give subsides
To the corporate welfare queens
So, why can’t we figure out how
To make functioning voting machines?
We buy stupid tripe every day in print
Why can’t we give up that crap for lent?
We hurl insults at non-Christians brothers.
It’s not possible this is what Jesus meant.
We have the wherewithal
To feed every boy and girl.
We also have the resources
To blow up half the world.
Nov 13, 2017
Nov 13, 2017 at 6:05 PM UTC
Beautiful Bounty, that was her name
The vessel to take us to stake our new claim
Her cabins were sleek
A strong wooden frame
We set to the seas
Fortune awaits
Beautiful Bounty, now gone astray
Great blue skies
Now faded gray
weak lumber and hunger cause great dismay
Beautiful Bounty, sunk deep in the sea
Eighty-eight souls nevermore to be
No fame nor riches did they ever witness
Beauty Bounty, that was her name
A watery grave
The last thing she gave
Jul 4, 2017
Jul 4, 2017 at 9:29 PM UTC
In spring meadow a new song is—
Laid on an earthly table with birds
To feather nest, breaths remember,
Budding poems of leaves embrace,
All season is watered, warmly held
Dearly, bright and kept into drying
Bouquets. Little creatures—flutter
In concords, humming with breeze
Caught fallows freed into sanctuary
Of bloom and spark, do clearly note
Abundance soon will break, arrived
To reasons that trail green into fires
Of earned, autumnal transcendence,
The flowers of peak, mature fruition.
In a spring meadow, celebrations all
Thrown— confetti let loose by Gods.
Jul 8, 2016
Jul 8, 2016 at 7:41 PM UTC
.
Tangles of vine, wisps of thorn,
Roping a rocky face of granite,
High, on a hill are drops of sky,
Green hands cradle purple beads
Of the sun, whose skin is frosted
In water vail, morning days' dew
Has come, birds and bees singing
Songs to hum anew, this offering
All to ancient invitations of spring,
There will be wine and flower laid,
Before rise of moon or day is done.
Jun 25, 2016
Jun 25, 2016 at 7:17 PM UTC
The cold glance of your eyes
Tells a story I've heard several times before
And of all the moments I've been frozen
It seems the past just won't erase
Or at the least ******* get warmer
Because bombs are funny things
They explode when you most, and least, expect them
And in all this friendly fire
And the sharpest of barbs that we've traded
It's clear that there's a bounty on my head
We tiptoe through these tripwires
Falling for these faceless and withered phantoms
And of all the nights we've been at war
And all the mornings the sirens chime
This is finally where my heart dies out
May 3, 2016
May 3, 2016 at 4:32 PM UTC
Look far into the distance
What do you see?
There's a semblance of something
Tragic.
Green blurs to yellow and orange and red
Falling upon the Earth's bountiful head.
She combs through her hairs until they're prepped for her shower.
She awaits the shampoo to arrive.
And what do we do?
We stamp out the paths we need
For our little maggot selves to pass through.
It's time we stop carving out cavities
Into the head of the place we call home.
She feeds us
And clothes us
And lulls us to sleep
Remaining selfless despite arrhythmia's creep.
Nov 13, 2015
Nov 13, 2015 at 9:34 AM UTC
I don't understand Thanksgiving
I don't understand it at all
Instead of giving thanks for things
We sit and watch football
Americans give thanks each year
For the bounties in their life
Like freedom, food and housing
A loving family, little strife
But, in Canada, it's different
We give thanks, slightly the same
But, ours is a holiday from politicians
It's not held the day we came
We watch football, and eat turkey
Gorge ourselves and fall asleep
Leaving dishes till tomorrow
We know the mess will keep
but, if Thanksgiving has true meaning
And we give thanks, I want to know
Who are we truly thanking really
Is it God ? I need to know
Are we thanking God for loving us
Even though he can't be seen
Do we thank ourselves for what we've earned
It's not as easy as it seems
I mean, really when it comes down to it
What is Thanksgiving truly for?
Is it to gorge ourselves on turkey
So we can watch football some more
It's not something that I'm fond of
It's a day off work, that's all
I'm thankful for my bounty
But, I don't know who to call
To tell that I am thankful
I'm a transplant here you see
I don't understand Thanksgiving
It don't mean much to me
If a homeless man is thankful
Is it right that some are not
They just eat and watch their football
All the things that he has not
He's as thankful as the next man
In fact I'd say he's more
Because to him, a true thanksgiving
Doesn't need to have a score.
Oct 3, 2012
Oct 3, 2012 at 4:47 PM UTC
**Pirates crashed whimiscal skulls in a jiffy, venturing
quenched excruciating desires at zestful bounties.**
Jun 20, 2015
Jun 20, 2015 at 7:52 AM UTC
Like the breath of an infant
Blooming new each day
Sweet toiletries
Fresh fragrance
Life unfolds before us
Natural bounties
Fruit bearing
Baring flesh
Sensory experiences
Gifts given, again and again
Never prosaic
Supreme variety
All for me, for you
We must remember
When taking, to give
Apr 21, 2015
Apr 21, 2015 at 6:39 PM UTC
Not against the peaks of protest, these aurulent banners and jasperated jaspe so so jargoon! It's like I was suddenly alive, beat-stretched out of winter neige and into the pancosmic blisses of bright and ebullient spring, plugged with an agromania to abide this new formidable friend in the aeviternal beauty of she and I togetherness. Never to spill a morsel of a minute away from us again, upon the newly conjured spirits unto us both. To be amidst a cynosure of such affiation, to be in the temperate or tropical gardens whispering about our mutual love for flowers nad lists. This that precedes us, bright colliding auras in this newfound numinous kindling of us two. Watching it, making it happen- it unfolding before me made me naseaus with excitement, dithering what our next move out to be. I just wanted to kiss her face, her cheeks, put our hands together so quickly, just to let our amorous fug fill the room with silver albuminious smoke from our breaths. Miles below this, round the Earth to other places, there are the fixtures of bright and corybantic life commoved by other nations and other poised people of the light, that I should not be idle in my desires to usher myself into this grand and briguing introduction. So she said, we will play the question game, the inquiry game, we will state the mark, draw upon deep and fantastical recall, bring from our minds the most immense truths and share them, no matter now feral, or caustic, or melancholy- they will be shared until we explode with each other, our intrigues wrapped in our perfervid and amatory excitedness for one another. Too vast with wonder to be afraid of- am I such a fiend for such resplendence. That we could be vitrified in eternity in a veil of fulgurite. So at this nightfall, this acronychal of bloviating bliss, to write and wonder, incessantly in the finest of provincial matters to settle this garden where Thetis lives to be of her, two philocalists in verdant pasture, heaped with matters of the pen and the palm, in the droves of this beautiful advesperating eve- where first I wrote to you, and then I wrote you back.
Apr 26, 2014
Apr 26, 2014 at 5:15 AM UTC