Poetry
becoming
she was of the same valley
slender and pristine
april 28th 2024
among the woodland trees
danced the young foliage
arising from the ground
spreading over the hills
and into the valleys below
she was of the same valley
slender and pristine
blooming in delicate pearls
illuminated by the sun
over the hills of Bether
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Ode to 25
When I was seventeen
I dug a ditch and slept in it
for a hundred frigid nights
March 30th 2024
When I was seventeen
I dug a ditch and slept in it
for a hundred frigid nights
just waiting for the prick
of frost to rest upon my face
and arms and chest and
fingertips in frozen crystal
bites…and despite having
witnessed the passing of
five thousand
four hundred
and fifty seven moons
since that hundredth day,
sometimes I still sense
the frost when I wake.
But, nowadays the remnants
drip upon my cheeks
within a blink or two and
merely pause upon my skin
and in my pores, pooled,
until they disappear.
I wonder why the frost
still wants to come alive
and if it knows the air
is warmer at twenty five.
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Along the Ocean Floor
The fish began to dart
about in the dark depths
where I found myself
stumbling upon the cold
slumber of a lost ship
March 18th 2024
The fish began to dart
about in the dark depths
where I found myself
stumbling upon the cold
slumber of a lost ship
while mumbling to myself
in the midst of all this
laid an old wooden chest
in a divot in the sand
where it once came to rest
and witnessed only by
the fish was my name
left scrawled in the grain
of the walnut boards
decomposing in this place
as if in disintegration and
decay was a newfound
creation of profound peace
swept up in the currents
and consumed by the sea.
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Lenticels
into the lens flickers morning light
reflections in the dew-covered bark
of a young slender white birch tree
March 9th 2024
into the lens flickers morning light
reflections in the dew-covered bark
of a young slender white birch tree
contrasts between dark and light
pores inhaling life from the atmosphere
heavy with a vaporous sustenance
quenching thirst beneath the surface
and myself as a wandering witness
mist soaking into my cheekbones
a newfound home of resemblance
picturesque within a single frame
There is Chaos in the Trees
There is chaos in the trees.
Why else would the branches
begin to bend and break
under the weight
of a few little offshore breezes?
February 6th 2024
There is chaos in the trees.
Why else would the branches
begin to bend and break
under the weight
of a few little offshore breezes?
If we withstand the winds
as they roar through the streets,
we preserve an unforgiving
branch of humanity. Yet
the same great storm,
in all its might, would not
be survived by the trees.
Selfishly, I would rather
protect the roots and branches
and leaves, as in time gone by
they have protected me.
From The Hand of Another
Sometimes I begin to wonder if
the cooing mourning dove
is lonely where it sits upon the eaves.
January 29th 2024
Sometimes I begin to wonder if
the cooing mourning dove
is lonely where it sits upon the eaves.
And, if such thoughts as these do fill
my mind, perhaps they fill his, too.
Perhaps when peering through the glass
he sees a solemn view of where I sit.
Why would I not hold out my hand,
if the dove may come and eat from it?
Redwood
Is it too much to ask that you
not outgrow the Redwood Trees?
I prefer to never know a life
where their reflection does not exist
within the depths of your eyes.
January 23rd 2024
Is it too much to ask that you
not outgrow the Redwood Trees?
I prefer to never know a life
where their reflection does not exist
within the depths of your eyes.
Could I propose, instead,
that the richness of my soil
be a resting place for the roots
you may bear? Perhaps a Hugo
would be best. And in such ground,
may your roots and the roots of
those that follow you be a hidden
indication of the heights we may
reach, so that when the fog clears,
it is you and I within the rings
of the Redwood Trees, and all will know
that we were not one without the other.
Sobre el mar
Upon the mountainside,
surrounded by the sea,
sits a quaint little home
peeking through the trees.
Hatillo, Puerto Rico
Upon the mountainside,
surrounded by the sea,
sits a quaint little home
peeking through the trees;
the home of birds that
chirp and crawling bugs
and buzzing honey bees
and peace abounding
in the salty breeze
upon the mountainside,
surrounded by the sea.
Regrowth
arriving at the garden gate
a glimmer through the panels
reveals a type of growing pains
along the river channels
January 8th 2024
arriving at the garden gate
a glimmer through the panels
reveals a type of growing pains
along the river channels
and crouching by a wooden chair
a look upon the soil
unveils a healing disrepair
through growth in past turmoil
arising from the earth becomes
a delicate fiddlehead
from where it could not overcome
for it lived among the dead
disintegrating ashes rise
and leaves begin to quiver
for the fire looming in the sky
was no match for the river
Endure
I find myself in a state
of pure intentionality
judging every word
and move and breath
as if a step without regard
would be a step into
absolute nothingness
December 30th 2023
I find myself in a state
of pure intentionality
judging every word
and move and breath
as if a step without regard
would be a step into
absolute nothingness
but the pull of existence
is stronger and to not care
would be to self-destruct
I have pushed that button
once before and somehow my
scattered pieces landed here
Home
December 19th 2023
Tanka Poetry
December 19th 2023
I have lived inside
a polished castle, dripping
in a shining gold;
a flawless encompassment
of hidden imperfections.
And I’ve lived inside
a wooden cabin, leaning
on the mountainside;
an unknown exhibition
of looming uncertainties.
I have also lived
in a submarine, sunken
on the ocean floor;
residual loneliness
of pressurized inhabitance.
But between us, when
I am asleep within these
familiar walls,
I find my soul in a state
of rest from imperfections
and survived uncertainties;
alive in a house, a home.
Woman
November 19th 2023
Poetry
November 19th 2023
White-haired and aged with smile lines
from years of giving love and life, a woman
sits and ponders.
When glancing at the black and white
of photographs in frames, aligned, the woman
will soon uncover
that maybe by some grand design
she is a woman, wise and divine, a woman
growing fonder
of growing age and smile lines
from years of giving love and life; a woman,
turned a grandmother.
November
November 11th 2023
Poetry
November 11th 2023
I lay beneath a November
sky, trickling with rain; clouds
covering the craters of the moon.
Where are you, moon?
I question of the night,
Where are your stars?
A sudden breeze arrives
as a reminder of its presence;
a breath upon my skin.
I am not afraid of the abyss,
I remind the unseen moon,
and I will wait for your return.
Peace Like a River
November 7th 2023
Tanka Poetry
November 7th 2023
In dreams, in wonder,
I step in-to the water,
drawn to the manner
in which death begins beneath
the dark shadows of my feet.
But soon, I perceive
that life below the surface
is not built for those
like me; those in need of warmth
and light and color. And so,
I emerge upon
the reflections of His Peace;
ripples in my chest,
and the cold river lapping
at the stone where I now stand.
In the Shadows
September 27th 2023
Poetry
September 27th 2023
A soft creak in the night wakes me from my anxious slumber
and I adjust to the darkness, when comes a crack of thunder;
Is it your figure in my sight? Is it you? I begin to wonder.
And with fire in the sky - a bolt of lightning that I conjure -
upon the walls dance the shadows of your form strewn asunder.
Silver
September 18th 2023
Tanka Poetry
September 18th 2023
I hear the gentle
strumming of an old guitar
held by the worn hands
of a man, closing his eyes,
playing songs built out of dreams.
Like most rainy days,
the shadows of small raindrops
dance upon his brow.
Toes tap the hardwood floor; a
rhythm built by newfound love.
And as evening comes,
a soft, red glow surrounds us,
reflecting into
my eyes, from the mountain range
etched in silver on his wrist.
Absorption
September 12th 2023
Poetry
September 12th 2023
You are a vapor cloud;
mist, swirling around
my head, settling, like dew
upon my cheeks and
on the bridge of my nose and
to them, you are invisible,
apart from certain light,
yet I can feel you,
seeping into my pores,
drowning me, unknowingly,
from the inside out.