Clik here to view.
We Have Bees
We Have Bees We have bees– or rather the bees have us. Thrumming, humming, like a pulse drumming inside the skeletal walls of this decaying crib. Unlike Herculean Samson, I will not reach in to steal...
View ArticleClik here to view.
Boots By the Side of the Road
Boots by the side of the road, why are you here? Here at the severe curve where every driver must slow nearly to not-moving. Did they pause to set you out for smell of foul feet? Or bad behavior, if...
View ArticleClik here to view.
Sssssscary!
I know I’m a bit late to the party, but I just finished the picture, so yeah, here it is. I wrote this little poem for Halloweensie. Halloweensie is a writing contest hosted by Susanna Leonard Hill on...
View ArticleClik here to view.
The Crow
A one-pass poem: a poem written in one pass; no edits A walk in the brightness in the blueness in the bareness of this November day filled my lungs with coldness which condensed in my skull and...
View ArticleClik here to view.
A Poem: Stuck
STUCK Here I am somehow in the middle of January. It has that childhood feeling- when you try to step through a snowdrift but your boot is left behind. I am here in the middle tottering precariously....
View ArticleClik here to view.
Cranes for Peace
As a writer and an artist, I find balancing my time and practice of the two overwhelmingly difficult. I have yet to find the rhythm of attending to both within a day or even a week. Lately, my efforts...
View ArticleClik here to view.
A Gray Day
I wrote this journal entry back on February 9, but rereading it today, I thought it was fitting for today, too. So here are some thoughts about A Gray Day. Photo by Dave Hoefler on Unsplash *this...
View ArticleClik here to view.
Oh, March
photo: Johannes Plenio, Unsplash Oh, March There are the unlovely months– or so people say. Some cuff their collars to November: too windy, too gray. Some stay sequestered in July: too muggy, too...
View ArticleClik here to view.
Perfection
Photo: Dan Freeman, Unsplash PERFECTION I write, and I fight with myself, with my brain. I cannot train it. I strain it and drain it. My pen scratches in patches, in scribbles and batches. My spirit...
View ArticleClik here to view.
Beside a Mountain Stream
“I could take a nap,” he said, as he settled himself onto a fallen tree. I looked at the pebbled bank, smooth and cool, next to the stream. “Yes,” I agreed. My old bones did not protest too much as I...
View Article
