Category: The Poetry.
Once when I was six, as I was lying on the fresh green cover of spring, all the tiny creatures of the season began their lives around my curious tongue. They whispered their passwords of life and I spoke silently, asking their guidance on the wisdom of green and the taste of blue. Moments hovered and passed, lying there facing life right-side up, … Read More The Mysteries of Blue and Green
Dark like cherries your eyes measure the weight of the distance we have traveled, the miles grinding gravel on the tires as we rise over the hill. With calm, we witness that curious shine that rests on the tar like a glass hole, and we speak in chorus, pulling back our memories to illustrate for each other the time your Mother drove around a … Read More Taking a Drive In ¾ Time
You ask me why I don’t sing like I did when we were young? My eyes smile a liquid glance. My feet create a tenor that rises up in a chorus of motion that exits through my restless breath. I dance with my thoughts and I listen to them harmonize an affecting carol that settles beside my heart. You ask … Read More The Singer
1 Unplanned trees grow tight around the Hokenson baby’s birth date as I move from grave to grave. Sad lovers with milky eyes that didn’t survive the war, the markers show the names of some who lay alone and others who wait for partners, who continuing to create picnics shared with friends skipping stones in the river, and listening to the flop, plop, as … Read More The Sunrise Cementary
Pies should be easy. Their very foundation is the basis of all nourishment. Wheat, fat, salt, water. But pies are complex. Too Much time caressing them and they become tough and unyielding. Too little and they fall apart like detached clumps of earth. To nurture your pie you need a light cool stroke that stretches from the palm of your hand outward all the way … Read More Pies As The Basis Of Life
Your sound folded out over a field of blue and yellow flowers as you lagged behind. You called them dog lilies and shook their pedals, forcing them to laugh off the dew of sunrise. Though we can still move together, for some time the spaces between our steps have been without design, simply combing the time before with now. You use to … Read More Untitled-One
I want to run with scissors. Sniping into the air with a perilous swagger clipping at music confused by modulation and lost by fragments of beat, and with fine edge tweezers extracting tiny particles floating from the speakers of my radio never vibrated by the treble of Leon Russell and Delta Lady. I want to shear the smell of chocolate from my memory and … Read More I Want To Run With Scissors
The morning coffee swirls around today’s headlines, as they pour from the pages of the newspaper dark and strong. We begin to share the toast, as the sun moves yesterday’s dust, streaming through the doorway reaching like eager fingers in search of crumbs. We talk in puffs of thought that carry today’s design and tomorrow’s surge with a ripe curiosity and a single nod … Read More Morning and the Daily News
We go down to the rock each morning you and I, in search of some religion. I pray with your voice and you with mine until the air around us shakes with exhale and we fall to the ground. Soon there will be more of us, this crawling group of water seekers, and as we loosen the gravel from our elbows and toes, a … Read More Walking at 5:30 A.M. by The Lake
My next lover will be an old soul strolling with Sinatra and Morrison hand in hand. He’ll eat thick fat steaks medium rare with only salt and pepper. Not always polite, but always kind he will laugh when I trip over the top step. And then his hand will grab my wrist. He will be ardent and authentic, as we laugh at pictures of cats, and the old people … Read More My Next Lover
I dive into the page and begin to skim through words like uncooked rice, brown granules roll around my thighs, massaging me, sticking between my toes. Neruda’s grain waxes and wanes, pushing against my trunk, kernels swirling along my shoulders, the tick tick tick of particulates fall over my arms, my chest. And as I reach for the end, I shake off the pieces, … Read More When I Read Pablo Neruda
Before the young coyotes crawl from their dens to steal the sun, I slide from mine to capture the air. Putting my heel forward, I imagine myself a buzzing insect waltzing around the trees, and I rise above the furious rocks and twigs that lie beneath my sole. I taste the leaf and river as bitter as earth, blades of grass inject my arteries … Read More Hiking the Cottonwood to Indian Point Before 8:00 A.M.