canto

I have high expectations for poetry to spark some light, to wake me up enough so I can sleep at night. Then to feed me and others. To reveal subtle secrets and bothers. To scour out the remains of the day. To be grey. The pen, paper, growl, the games, the time, the noticing of my scowl are all parts of the same approach. The fight for fetching far flung alliterative comparisons begins as eyes open and continues like longitudinal lines throughout my waking hours. And like those perpetually bending lines, my rhymes rarely end. My brain taps out multi-verses of multiverses and only stop once the weight of the day snaps my lids shut. Honestly, I usually have had enough by noon. Or the good stuff has run out sooner. And even though some of my process is compulsive and explosive and sometimes just for show- the only thing that really stops this deal, is when my hand feels, without doubt, that I am giving the world one more counterfeit to wonder about and convinces my pen to stop and say 'no'.

compose

hello. what do you need?
do you seek surprise
in the same stride 
as symmetry?
you good with danger?
can you be bothered
and accompanied?
do you accept flow
and an unknown 
emotion as a 
welcome stranger?
these alien tools
rubbing your shoulders 
and sleeping
in your head-
can they be seen instead 
as well worn gifts
that could create shifts
in your ombré
in your tender below
in your shadow?
when your cool becomes hot
your calm not
do you crave
to stand in dark?
yet not let any part
of it 
into 
onto 
next to
your soul?
if you expect life
to keep happening
to keep unfolding
helping and
shouldering
even after you have 
tapped out
the rhyme scheme,
what might that
mean?
we all die,
but could words 
help you 
to love yourself 
to death?
and then 
help you hold 
onto your wholeness
and breath
and every best 
part of it 
that is
worth 
seeing 
craving
saving. 
even while
you are suspended 
in the moment
before the
moment you are
noted
noticed
supported. 

landing

dropping into standing water
at the midline of a wheat field
the splash down seems accidental
not some hidden purpose revealed. 
when the duck appeared from nowhere
in this landlocked shallow stream
did it plan for safe harbour there
or had it just run out of steam?

receipts

the wind blows one way, so they went the other
or
good advice became too much of a bother
or
let’s dig into what they learned from their father
or
examine the world that surrounds and might smother
or
ask directly and really go no farther,

why did you change?

syllable

by mid life I've become
far less gullible.

accepting that life to 100
ain't possible. 

since the men in my family die
early is unforgettable.

widthy not lengthy life goals 
are surely more plausible.

fault

the feels
you find
in my writing
are there 
purposely.
but make 
no mistake
by asking me,
what meaning's
behind
all that 
poetry.
in your moment
of dare,
eagerly mining 
what's there,
you will miss
the power
of poems 
entirely.