Feet wiggling in Lukewarm, soft sand A wave Crashes on the Stump of my legs Planted beneath a Rough blanket Now washed away with Murky water. Epiphany How we handle grief. Place ourselves still Let time overcome Desires, emotions, tears Let it take away Fears, and cleanse All the doubts, With the returning tide A soul remains With hope afresh For a new beginning.

Long days, longer nights
Nights pass, soft yet strong
strong silence swallows the earth
Earth needs more of that song

Numbness is so aggravating.
It beats,
Makes one hear things.
It lures desperation from
Astounding aspirations.
It begs with crying voices.

But all turn,
All drum to the writhing sound
Which rattles in the numbing cries.
They stare blankly at the soothing
Screeches which lather deep scars
Upon the throats from which they
Originate.

They tear the skin,
For what is it but paper to the
Fingernails of sound.
To the ripe sharp voice who echoes
With unearthly squeals.

It dances about,

The numbness to say,

I searched everywhere
Where to lustily laugh
Find the joy buffoon
Push, press for it to bring fantasy
The comic reflection of sugar cane
In all its glorious rainbow colors
On a merry-go-round ‘til your head spins
You fall off, laughing
Roll on the ground with your best friend
Drink a cold fruit juice
Lick the ice cream cone
All in the span of one hour
The whirl, the cone, the wind
All so refreshingly good.

After all, often I find the funny bone buffoon
Friends, games, tasty tongue-licking
Happy to relive
All tastes and sensations heartily

you’re no good
with memories. 

they’re all flat
grainy
ineffectual.

what’s kept preserved:
the creases in his face,
the oldness once
kept within

quickly

pushed to the surface
by methotrexate
and other poisons
meant to stop the cells
from balling in the blood.

The horns honking
with every choked breath, gone
the whiskey, club soda, and peanuts
that accompanied every thoughtful word.

You’ve lost him but
you haven’t lost everything.
He keeps bringing you

here.

The Highland mist conceals a sacred isle
Where green of moss embraces gray of stone
That marks the grave of one who fell to guile
Of clansmen who betrayed him to the throne.

In life he donned the mantle of a laird
And rested hand on hilt of sword or dirk
But slept unarmed by winter hearth he shared
With those who broke his bread and shamed the kirk.

The daughters of the dead succumbed to snow
And prayed with frozen lips for shelter’s grace.
At death’s approach they glimpsed a jeweled bow
That bridged the clouds from loch to holy place.

I love the way we zone out
during the most useless parts of the day
to watch the rain wash down our windows,
wondering whether Dickinson or Whitman
ever imagined a little universe
bursting into existence

in every raindrop like we do.
When the big bang plays
over and over again within
the rain - each droplet breaking
and unbreaking
until one planet gets it right, we both know
it’s more momentous than earning
minimum wage. You smile

and I smile as you appear
in the doorway like a breath
of dandelions. The sun takes

The Color of Your Voice


Sunday afternoon in bed:
Your Sacagawea teaches my Clark
how to explore unknown lands.

Speaking not in whispers, but softly,
you tell me of your childhood:
The games you played in the fields,
the gods you worshipped each day.

I hear the pinks and purples
of sunrise at a new river bank.

See her standing out there

Feeling it's all absurd feeling like a cartoon character who might just step out of his bedroom window and start to walk across the empty air only realizing when he looks down the mistake he's made only falling then