Ro
When this note fades
will it join you in that place
above the sky
or below the waves
of the earth’s plump
body? Or will it
circle back, returning to
my lips and this
hollow day
to aspire again?
Note: Ro designates the fingering required to produce a particular note on the shakuhachi, the traditional Japanese bamboo flute. In this case, closing all holes.
Better Than Drowning
As clouds leverage sky and the wind scours each night.
Surrounding the spiraling strands. Wherever I am. And am not.
Over the crushing waves, suspended between air and matter.
With the earth in taproots drilled through stone.
Under the layered fog, dampness upon dampness, differing by degree.
I see you where I don’t look. You live in the mirror.
The night conceals nothing, not even my guilt.
Not even my pleasure. Nor your smile.
I shake the quilt and spread you everywhere.
Though no door existed, it closed behind you.
Which is the point of absence, the fulcrum on which I balance.
You turn and join the light, casting no shadow.
* * *
“Better Than Drowning” first appeared in Underfoot Poetry in October 2017. Many thanks to Tim Miller for taking this piece, and for his enthusiastic support of poets and poetry.
Bent
We’ve seen some version of the nail
curled over, the head angled at 90 degrees
or parallel to its body, just above
the penetration point. Three years ago
a tornado powered a single straw stem
through the oak’s bark and into its trunk,
illustrating the Old English beonet, for
“stiff grass,” and sadly conjuring the image
of a blade affixed to a firearm’s muzzle, the
etymology of which lies elsewhere, in Gascony.
And when we consider mental inclination,
signifying deflected, turned, or not straight,
we might also include an earlier past participle
meaning “directed in course.” But even the
tree’s armor could not deter the twister’s
wrath, and the hammer, no matter my aim
or purpose, seems intent upon glancing off
the nail, twisting it, leaving us, again, bent.
“Bent” first appeared in the print publication Ristau: A Journal of Being in January 2018.
In This Shack a Cold Wind Blows
In this shack a cold wind blows,
shuffling papers and ideas before settling
on the floor. Leaves rustling. Tea,
cooling. You recall the peace of near
death, fear circling the drain,
giving in to breath, labored but certain,
one exiting another and again,
then laughing at the improbability: you
are nothing. You were nothing.
Nothing will come of you. You say
yesterday, and think tomorrow. Today.
* * *
“In This Shack a Cold Wind Blows” was first published in April 2019 by The Elixir Magazine out of Yemen.
Mayflies
Having no functioning
mouths, adults do not eat,
and live their lives
never knowing
the pleasure of food
and drink, the bitter
bite of dandelion greens
with the crisp notes
of prosecco rolling over
the tongue. Instead,
they engage in aerial
sex, often in swarms
above water, many dipping
to the surface to lay eggs,
some submerging, while
others die unfulfilled,
eaten. Who’s to say
which life burns brighter;
even knowing these facts,
still I dream of flight.
“Mayflies” is included in my chapbook, From Every Moment a Second. It was also the inspiration for the artwork gracing the cover. I am in debt to Stephanie L. Harper for providing such a vivid and appropriate piece of art for the book. Available at Amazon.Com and Here
My poem “Maps” is live at Green Ink Poetry. This previously appeared in Riggwelter, and was originally drafted during the August 2016 Tupelo Press 30-30 Challenge. I owe its existence to Ken Gierke, who sponsored the poem and provided the title (which I changed) that sparked this piece.
Drawer of Possibilities
In the drawer of possibilities
you find stasis, the lure of the unknown.
To what should this hinged orb
be subservient? Or that wrinkled blade?
An egg, the bald potato. The sacrificial
carrot? To everything its purpose.
Like that light in the crook of the
altered frame, attracting the winged
beings. You, of course, serve nothing.
“Drawer of Possibilities” first appeared in The New Reader in March 2018.
Rain Haibun
Watching that thought slide down the wall
into the grass. Losing it and the next,
celebrating each. How quickly the body
accepts decay. This knee, those arteries.
A fragmented life. Not even the rain
brings us back.
The ticking roof
swells with thunder.
My old friends, waiting.
* * *
“Rain Haibun” first appeared in The Larger Geometry: poems for peace, available at Amazon. This anthology of poems that “uplift, encourage and inspire,” features poets from five countries and three continents. Published by the interfaith peaceCENTER of San Antonio, Texas, a 501(c)(3) nonprofit organization. All proceeds from the sale of this anthology go to benefit the peaceCENTER.
I’m pleased to have had a small role in selecting the poems.
Contributing poets include Lynne Burnett, Charlotte Hamrick, Daryl Muranaka, Stephanie L. Harper, Sudhanshu Chopra, Texas Poet Laureate Carol Coffee Reposa, Michael Vecchio, Rebecca Raphael and others.
Ramekin
I speak when you speak,
say nothing to your everything.
The world is a ramekin filled with bits of ourselves.
It is a recipe for error,
a list of adorations and illusion.
You take my hand and say when I’m gone
there will be others.
The ingredients include vinegar and salt, but no honey.
You hear what I hear, only more.
Teach me to breathe.
Empty this dish.
Tell me.
“Ramekin” was first published in the online anthology Igxante: An Ontology. I am grateful to editor Kate Morgan for taking this piece.
Gruyere
Thinking of speech and the gruyere sliver
balancing on that blade, which nouns push it over,
which hold it in place. How simplicity defies the complex.
Like the hard-crusted bread of flour, water, salt and yeast.
The elemental surge. A little steam. An incantation
born of emptiness: he speaks but says nothing
as the cheese teeters on the edge, suffering
the plight of the incomprehensible. Funny
that adding more reduces the whole, and less
flavors it. A few words, a spice. A syllable.
Milk and rennet. Verbs. A confident tongue.
“Gruyere” was published in Nthanda Review, an online literary magazine out of Mawali, in January 2019.
O at the Edges 