"hatchling" poems
The moon is now bright and full
showering silver romance,
to the leaves of tree so dull.
A cricket humming his chants
deep in meditation behind
the dark unknown shrub's branch.
Somewhere in a nest, a hatchling can't sleep
letting out feeble hunger cries
her mother did not fetch enough to feed.
While on my walk, I see those eyes
hiding behind a trunk, peeping
I assure it safety, I know may be lying
Night is the time for them to be,
struggling to enjoy independence and security
this unending night leading them to the unknown
what will remain I wonder at the crack of dawn.
Jul 26, 2015
Jul 26, 2015 at 2:37 PM UTC
The perfectionist loves to hear his voice,
He is the respected critic inside,
He is the learned one,
The educated and the educator.
A beautiful constructor,
The finishing touch
To the artist's hand.
The voice is always a partner,
He will always be there to help
The artist, comfort is taken in his ability.
The artist needn't forget,
There are many voices on the side,
Awaiting for their time to speak,
Each one has its time,
All varying in their patience and duration.
The artist sees what he hasn't before:
The voice of support; the voice of love; the voice of decision; and the voice of passion.
There is always time to contemplate his flaws
And he wants to reassure himself:
Perfection is not a demand, but a quest,
One of beauty and one of joy.
Perfection is the beauty in imperfection.
The pursuit of achievement is one to relish, it is not to be rushed or
Ceased, it is a running walk, a walking run, a sitting stand, a moving still.
It is every step he has made.
The artist looks behind and sees
His effort, he is proud to have experienced
His triumphs and his trauma
The voice of comfort will be there all the way,
She is a gentle quieter spirit that deserves as much an ear.
When all voices have calmed and subsided,
Her tenderness remains.
I remind the artist of his friends,
I remind him that the critical voice is the voice of nature,
The physical laws unchanged.
He is the driving force to stasis and movement in the age worry and indecision.
"Do not be overwhelmed" I say to the artist,
You are one of many.
You are with friends.
The voice of change encourages the artist to evolve and to smile,
The voice of happiness allows peaceful living and awareness.
The tiger belongs to nature,
not to be feared, but to be respected
and understood.
Do not despair, do not relinquish hope,
Hope is the shining beacon in a world of anguish.
Hope is the angel shining her torch ever so bright.
Hope is the window that allows pain and suffering to see the light of day ,
Hope allows oneness.
The artist moves his brush: an effortless stroke,
A flicker of joy,
A tear in his eye.
He once was old,
Now is young.
He learns to enjoy
The work he has done,
He can now enjoy the work he does,
He is enjoying the work he is doing.
He enjoys his life.
The state of mind, it is a fickle hatchling.
Able to be pursued and persuaded,
also able to be liberated.
The artist is free,
His thoughts can pass,
His fear will subside,
His body can move,
His heart will follow
And the mind will allow.
Spirit be set free,
Bird do fly,
Artist do paint,
You,
You are.
Peace within oneself is peace with others.
The artist is brave, he is a soul that stands tall in the face of adversity,
He is a sleepless enigma in his room at night,
He is the passionate one,
The artist and his love affair with the critic outshines his charisma,
The love for the sophisticated darkness,
His love for the melodrama,
His quest for knowledge,
Perhaps the only knowledge is
Ignorance.
Blissful unawareness.
Jun 15, 2016
Jun 15, 2016 at 11:20 AM UTC
August, the Red Line,
connected tanks
of bolted plastic vertebrae.
Every seat gone except
five rows up, where a sea lion
sprawls across two,
stuffed backpack, yellow jacket
spread out like caution tape.
His grunt a wet bark
at the glow of his screen.
Middle-school deer slip into the aisle,
chatter clipped when the sheriff drifts past,
their ears flicking, smiles bitten shut.
Not a predator- just a gelded ox,
chest puffed, badge sagging, glass-eyed,
chest rig clattering with blanks.
Two lemur-children cling to their tortoise elder,
her shell steady against the sway of the car.
She shepherds them from the surge of riders:
loud Dodger blue parrots in cholo socks,
moth-women with plumed lashes beating the stale air,
a stray dog, gutter musk dragging at its haunches.
And one gray bear
muttering alone,
arguing with her reflection.
Between Koreatown and MacArthur Park,
somewhere the sea begins to breathe again,
then, feathers forcing through my skin-
an alley gull knifing into this clamour,
scavenging inside its exhaust.
The car rattles, its ribs plated with blistered posters:
museum wings open to no one,
‘register to vote’ fading into graffiti script,
flu shots promised by smiling ghosts.
A bruised hatchling staring out beside the words
See something, say something.
The warning lights glow
like eyes hunting in the dark.
From its flanks the train
unfurls iron claws.
They rake
the tunnel walls,
the city’s bones,
the dark itself.
Sep 29, 2025
Sep 29, 2025 at 10:00 PM UTC
Time is all that sets us free
To all the wonders, that can be humanly perceived
Time is all that binds us
To mundane, almost emotionless routines we have conceived.
Time is the ticking of the clock
That gnaws at us; leaving no immediate mark
Time is the face that has come to mock
It creeps on regardless; you notice it turn light to dark.
Time is the invisible candle that everyone innately holds
It gets lit from the moment we open our eyes
Time is not the wick that gives berth to flame
Rather it is the waxes that burn and then vaporise.
Time can and will never stop
Moments go by with the blink of the eyes
Time..., it does not favour
It isn't biased, it doesn't get swayed by truths or lies.
Time is the entity that governs almost all
It will tell when it deems it's right
From seedling to tree, hatchling to flight
A weakness to strength, the frail to might.
Time is the quest
That we have strived to conquer
Time is all of us
We have secretly craved for life much longer.
Time would only permit
All that I could pen in time
Time will always suggest to omit
So I could capture it all in rhyme.
Aug 13, 2014
Aug 13, 2014 at 9:55 PM UTC
Stuck in a rut of who i want to be
A constant feeling of being stuck at sea
No where to turn
No lessons to learn
Complete isolation
Is this what i diserve
A raven with no wings
Leaves a bird who wont sing
Waves shake and rock me
But i continue on
My boat keeps me afload
Keeping steady and strong
Thrown on this raft at a very young age
Constant sun burn and dehidration have my eyes crazed
Two people inside my mind
Im in control but struggle all the time
Out of sight
Out of mind
Is the story of my life
Full of fright
Now im blind
Must continue this fight
When suddenly i meet an unsuspecting creature
A very tired wolf with a very high fever
I take this wolf onto my floating door
Lick her wounds and give her compassion
...
Something nether of them have had before
The stranded raven adores the wolf
Infatuated with its being
After licking her wound
Her leg has stopped bleeding
But soon the raven will lick to much
The wolf snarls at the raven and howls to say enough
The raven retreats to his side of the tire
The close quarters would make the raven and wolf very tired
The raven was never raised as a hatchling
Rite out the egg starving
No incubation
No warmth for the raven
He is horrible to the wolf
Without knowing why
Could be his need to die
Could be his constant crying
The raven loves the wolf
This is clear
But he has had evil tendencies for many years
He hurts the wolf
He gets bitten
He hurts the wolf
He gets bitten
He hurts the wolf
He gets bitten
He hurts the wolf
He gets bitten
Now the raven is bleeding
Missing many feathers
Looking at the wolf
Stunned
The raven is starting to see what he has done
And he sits on his corner of the raft for months
He walks over to the wolf
Licks her heart
And says i should have been your boat from the start
I should never have hurt you
Drouned you
And im sorry
I offer you my neck as payment
The raven loves the wolf
This is clear
And decides to be a new bird
For the rest of his years
A cardinal appears from the raven
The black carcass falls
And the cardinal is born
And the wolf heals up
Never to be torn
Sep 27, 2014
Sep 27, 2014 at 12:26 AM UTC
**** me like an alpha,
**** me out of sight,
take me from this wonder,
this blindness in the night.
Anger me in morning
with the refusal of ugly ***
sleep still on our tongues,
whiskey on my breath.
Treat me to your body
when I am true and I am good,
dance me through your questions
until you are finally understood.
I can hear your longing
though I cannot hear your voice,
you know that I choose you,
though, I never really had a choice.
Tease me with your movie scenes,
your folded, anxious legs,
a calf born into the slaughterhouse,
the conveyor-belt, the hatchling, the egg.
I was doomed to your misfit puzzle,
I was sentenced to decay,
skin seared by your magnificence,
by your gratuitous delay.
Delay from a fulfilment,
a delay from inner peace,
the incremental recovery
whilst dreaming of the sea.
Now I'm drowning in the wishing well,
in the steady clamour of home;
the pill-box in the aquifer,
the faded reference to Rome.
I can memorise your breathing
hair fawning over your chest,
there are countless decent lovers,
but you know that I loved you the best.
So **** me like an alpha,
**** me out of sight,
I am tired of words and meaning,
those blind entries
into the night.
Apr 14, 2015
Apr 14, 2015 at 11:11 AM UTC
Pure achromatic, immaculate egg, sits in a nest.
Shaking and rustling, exploding at its best.
Once hatched it latched to its mother’s wit.
For the hatchling knew that she needed it.
The dove it flourished as a dove should,
And it grew so beautiful as beautiful as she could.
Now with integrity and innocence,
The dove knew to find love, it would finally make sense.
My Dove found love of the falsest facets,
Honeyed words of lust; they lack it.
Flattering gestures that quicken heart beats
Do often allow the dove to glide off her feet.
But Honeyed words don’t often last,
And soon that love became her past,
And now she wanders lonely in the clouds,
But this kind of love attracts only nimbus clouds
Of which to them she was avowed.
Now a dove,
Is indeed a symbol of love,
But love so pure and true,
The kind of love
That is common to a dove
Hunger for it, a yearning sensation within you.
Hunger, Thriving, Craving for this feeling of being complete,
But can’t you see that dependency leads to obsolete.
You will never be you,
You’ll be the both of you.
Is that what you want?
You want, you need to be someone’s gaunt
Old, decrepit partner?
Not I, I am alone,
But not lonely.
I am empty
Yet complete.
I am moist,
Yet dry as a desert.
I am me,
Yet no one at all.
Nov 30, 2013
Nov 30, 2013 at 3:08 PM UTC
Peter windowsill had a one track mind,
crystalline thoughts vexed him
a suede fringed woman had him smarting, but he's not the worrying kind.
Oh to be a Postman the best things come as future vermilion diaries
but birth mother's never recall their clams,
she's as attentive as a Cuckoo
sounding her new hatchling.
Peter window shop resounding
a chip off the old block
Dec 3, 2012
Dec 3, 2012 at 5:41 PM UTC
ashen wasteland
healed by dew
pulses, trembles
birthed anew
Mother beating
midnight drum
lily, crocus
cherry, plum
yearling stumble
hatchling drop
grizzly bumble
salmon flop
coyote howl
jackal bay
gleamy-eyed
they stalk their prey
brutal jaws
on tawny throat
****** tears
in tawny coat
feign o possum
flee o hare
saffron, saltbush
tulip, tare
Mother sows,
human reaps,
forward still
the forest creeps
hack and slash
slash and burn
maple, mayfly
buckthorn, fern
chipmunk gather
raccoon store
silence on
the barren moor
groundhog slumber
grizzly snore
knocking on
the Old Man's door
Aug 13, 2015
Aug 13, 2015 at 8:16 PM UTC
Such slow road unwinds
Vast possibilities in mind
Fresh hatchling ashore
A standalone play, day today
Watchmakers in store
Hatch moonplay on display
Merrily a cascade, bitter
notes in rhyme
A head comes out, it's time
Dec 30, 2013
Dec 30, 2013 at 5:32 PM UTC
There are times I find where religion would be quite useful
The practice of putting ones hardships in a prayer, or in a sealed jar, or in a confessional booth, or tray full of coins and cash
I’ve tried, for my mother’s sake in the past, but she’s been gone nearly a decade now. I’ve never seen her in a vision or heard her voice over the whirling of the wind. I’ve seen her in my memories, but never once in a dream
She died two feet from my face and if she was reciting the Lord’s Prayer, she did so in her head. What I do remember is akin to watching a hatchling pass away slowly. Focused on breaths, no time to prioritize much more.
Instead, I rely on Midnight Gospel. I worship at night, when everyone sleeps, seven days a week. Some nights, I sit at my desk for twenty-minutes before I realize I’ve been speaking to myself.
No one is allowed to join-in on the service, so I’m sure to play my piano softly or read in the furthest corner of my house, as to not disturb the non-believers. Sometimes I stare at this framed picture I have of my mother and me, but I do not speak to her, or pray to her, or ask her if I’ve made her proud.
Instead, I just marvel at the pace of time.
Would one rather accomplish their highest ideals, but die young or live long, wading through life, loved by everyone? It’s a legitimate question.
I have plenty of time to think about such things during my Midnights.
Of course, I should not discount the hundreds of micro-choices in between the extremes of the question above; The Grey. The Grey is real-life, micro-choices and no true commitments. My Midnights allow me to think in extremes, two-feet in.
But, escapism isn’t new, every man has considered starting fresh, running toward the unknown, before it’s too late. What I discovered in my Midnights is that if one poses the question, it’s already too late.
And, it’s times like these that I stare at that framed picture of my mother or flip through photo albums searching for a younger, more exciting version of me. And I smile, sometimes I laugh to myself.
What a guy I was!
But, I fall from that high and yearn for a God or for my mother to fight my battles for me. They are brave, they are courageous and I’m an eel, slithering through peoples lives, living off their blood, plotting in the dark, midnight waters.
May 11, 2015
May 11, 2015 at 6:59 PM UTC
and i can feel you in my nerves and i can see you in my skin and i can't look away from your
your soul is so promising just a hatchling of a chicken i am with my head cut off running loose in the barnyard
barnyard lazy days are what i had and then i saw you and colors everywhere sprockets and gadgets and loose-runnings and shoes
shoes without feet only energy only anticipation exhilaration in our eyes looking feeling touching
touching toes with no shoes on cold toe warm toe is a good sensation a broadening horizon a war zone in my belly
my belly rises and falls in time with yours the sun is up and stars are hiding we slept soundly fingers crossed between the others and then we knew it was
it was everything we read about from old men's minds in starched collars with big dollars who dreamt these things couldn't have them sat in foyers with long pipes smoke filling lungs tears filling eyes
tears filling eyes because i can feel you and
and i can feel you in my nerves and i can see you in my skin and i can't look away from your soul.
Mar 21, 2013
Mar 21, 2013 at 10:47 PM UTC
I am a ****** reject of consequence
with few realities that surround
him,
save the favored crusty nightmares
who seek me out at day-break’s shine
I am a glossed over heroine of limitless speech and pacing degradation
The sneaky child with two teeth and no dollar,
touched by flashes of those long gone and haze driven memories
and recollections for the weaker than he
I watched soaring cities of angelic barbarians topple over the realms of the gray ladies’ wake
straight into the hands of a gun dipped in the racist thoughts of my people
He wasn’t here for the feast celebrating many ages of consummate fire, plaguing the tribes of the sojourn streets dwellers as I looked forth to
the understated clouds of heaving purple, screaming in pink
To the arch of my favorite tree broke by city commissioners and cancerous politicians
To wave in spirit for the lazy eyed ****** gazing in the passing car window
For he champions the youth in unseen proportions as gently placed the shackles are fit around his waist
That sovereign hero who twists hell to his own reality, to exist in two with all fleeting love, still staring past the trees on 9th in await, a hatchling in a sparrows nest, drifting with heavy, heavy legs, hanging tight,
Alluring dark-light lips of concrete on sidewalk’s majesty, who fall all around the throats of our helpless behaviors
They take from him and us
Sep 28, 2012
Sep 28, 2012 at 6:15 PM UTC
Callused hallux digs the dirt, nervous
of what’s yet to come—I can only say:
Breathe, jumpy, think of light. All
cannot be grim as a goose
Who, unaware, is warming an egg
Not graced with life, unfertilized.
She chases off all who draw near,
Her fear the hatchling’s peril.
Poor mother goose, your ribs are showing,
Your breast has thinned, and winter’s coming.
Listen, anxious, light is simple
Simple like the egg that hatches.
You are holding fast to that
which only keeps you thin and sad.
Your former life’s not graced
with light, you cannot hatch
New life from sorrow.
September 2011
Oct 3, 2011
Oct 3, 2011 at 1:27 AM UTC
I am not Eve
Not paradise
I live in this world
Many troubles I have seen
Yet hatchling sparrows
in the pottery gourd
I have set up outside
by my kitchen door
have reminded me of simplicity
As squirrels come by to beg
for a scrap of food,
my two cats
lazing in the sun inside my home.
Is this how it feels in
the Garden of Eden?
Tending the animals I love so much,
providing shelter and food for others
that belong to the wild
If just for a moment or two,
no worries, no struggles,
no sadness, no doubts
A complete feeling of joy
at nature outside and inside my door
Jul 1, 2010
Jul 1, 2010 at 6:21 PM UTC
The sky was dark when we got the call.
We rushed to see you
I was a hatchling
absorbing sunlight for the first time
Stumbling
Speechless
Breathless
it just made sense.
I passed right there.
Hatchling to turtle to dust--
in the breeze, to the sand.
I was the shore.
The moment I saw you
Time stopped
as if I were at the bottom of a pool
for a second too long
The iridescent bulls-eye like waves
keeping the air from my lungs.
We belonged right there
surrounded and safe.
I was my esophagus,
obsessed with oxygen.
Obsessed with you.
The ocean released and
I could see with hazy vision.
Your eyes were closed
I knew I would be the first
to show you the world.
Oct 8, 2013
Oct 8, 2013 at 9:33 PM UTC
“My past is sliding down the drain;
I soon will be myself again.”
Theodore Roethke
Each moment, as a hatchling,
Altricial—then there’s light.
Blinking bowed before some God
To mind’s eye feeling’s sight.
Capitulation cast aside,
I’ll try—is that enough?
I shiver, shook from head to foot,
That’s life—its flesh is tough.
My D3 capsules, sun lamp, smiles,
Forcing my way through.
It takes more than a bit of faith
to get from winter black to blue,
So bruised, foreseen or not, you see
it aches to be this ghost.
My former self was due to die,
The new I’s time is close.
12.14.2010
Aug 17, 2011
Aug 17, 2011 at 8:20 PM UTC
And the journey begins
From the land of 10,000 10,000 mile high clouds
Drenching jungles and shores of ancient coral gardens
Long since harvested from the sea
Where they plant the love of their country in foreigners row by row by row
Where bananas resemble mashed potatoes and are served with onions
Where people can name the entire Yankees roster and have never kicked a soccerball
And yes my feet are tired
Because flip flops, like the government, offer little support
And who knows when I'll get the last grain of sand out of my hair
Or when the ringing in my ears from trumpet blasts will finally fade
Or the taste of unavoidably ingested bug spray will finally stop burning the back of my throat
my speedo tan lines will likely be the first to go
But all the myriad lessons internalized (read: only spray yourself with bugspray out doors)
All the friends friended with zero electronic interference (like the turtle hatchling I held or the man who volunteers years of his life protecting them for results that likely won't be seen in his lifetime)
Will live inside me forever
For, ever will my journey continue
Until we meet
And I can share them all with you
We can feast on them together
And they can maybe one day help you grow
like a mangrove tree
and harbor ideas of love in your roots like baby fish
And maybe if you're lucky, even taste the bug spray for yourself
Aug 26, 2014
Aug 26, 2014 at 12:20 AM UTC
Wild poets stylizing
beating the drum that must be heard:
Call from the depths that ancient heart beat,
Fill that genie *** a word.
Snaking, Smoking, Slithering,
abundant with passionate lashing,
Tongue in cheek, match the beat,
Feed our hungry hatchling.
Unnerved by the dogged inaccuracies
Plagued by the sources that know,
Round about they seek the truth:
No further they must go.
To create a straight and narrow path
Out of the circle you must come,
Raised a glass anew,
Darkness must be overcome.
Nay, Nay, Nay, Nay
Faith is naught with you,
Belief comes from a higher power,
It is not your job to rescue:
For I am not lost.
On the hill where our *father lies,
Under a breadth of dew,
he lays there and he testifies
that he saw the King of the Jews.
Find the beat again,
Is it there, Charlie?
Do you hear it in your soul?
Rattling the cages of time,
you seem so very controlled
and you still have
a very long way to climb.
Jun 3, 2011
Jun 3, 2011 at 9:30 PM UTC
Hello my name is well known and will never be forgotten
dont focus on that right now because it is my power over you and your disbelief of it that is important
for example i was strolling through a park and noticed a dove with its hatchlings
so i reached up and grabbed it
and i stroked it , caressing ever feather
then i finally reached for a talon and with a little pressure... snap .. its broken
not a drastic wound , it just make the bird walk a little gimpy
then i start plucking feathers from its head
next i shatter its left wing and strip it of any feathers. While it chirps in agony , its hatchling watch in fear
then i set it back in its next and come back tomorrow
i find the gruesome bird again and pick it up
This time i stroke down to its legs
and with a little pressure... snap... snap..
no more walking
i being to slowly puck every feather
one by one
but leaving the right wing completly untouched
i clip its singing chords and break its beak shut
i lay it down in the nest surrouned by its hatchling
with only the perfectg wing to remind them of what once was
i wrap my hand around the birds neck squeezing tighter and tighter ... but then i let go and walk away
i mark another tally on my wrist and let time do the rest.
hello my name is cancer
Jul 26, 2014
Jul 26, 2014 at 10:40 PM UTC
Wind tumbles leaves from their branches
Like a hatchling from its nest
Sometimes nature's like an alarm
Pushing us from rest
But one thing I have learned from this
Is that the world knows what it's doing
It gives a little shove when needed
And into our future, we're parachuting
May 1, 2015
May 1, 2015 at 11:50 PM UTC
pinata spring
of hatchling gallops
dandelion spear
Apr 27, 2021
Apr 27, 2021 at 5:25 AM UTC
*A master's whistle commands,
On a hunt, to the hounds,
To chase and not fail,
The deer's blood scented trail
Scraped by a swift arrow,
Flying through the nest of a true sparrow
Tearing apart,
The hatchling, from it's young spirit
The broken soul of its mother,
And bloodstain, on her quill feather*
Jul 4, 2016
Jul 4, 2016 at 9:36 AM UTC