incessant pounding of cartoon
noise, canned music,
whistling birds
battering themselves into walls
why is my child laughing?
I push a stray hair
off his forehead
and search those hazel eyes,
feeling sadness
like a slow break-up,
already nostalgia is setting in
I miss these cartoon days
even as they play in the background
simultaneously looking
and forward
time fragments into snapshots
my child,
I long to freeze the moment

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She approached the periphery
Circling life slowly,
Ebbing into oceans
Vast and misunderstood
Her mind wandering into dark
Wet places
Beckoning her dissolving self
Back to shore
She fought the tide
In useless protest
Kneeling in shallows,
Fists pounding salty sand
Grabbing handfuls of hair
Moaning guttural protest
More seagull than human
Falling into tide pools
Arms outstretched,
Warm ocean
Becoming her own blood
She became
Rising with the sun
Gathering pebbles and syllables
To roll around her tongue
As she stalked the shoreline
For one more
Glorious, golden

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Oh, Life

Oh, Life
Let me taste your sweet sensuality
Suck a honey drop
From your sweating brow
Surrender mortality

Let me engulf you
Beginning to end
Let me love you and leave you
And come once again

Oh, Death
How you haunt me
All these long years
Reminding me daily
To let go my fears

For you wait in the shadows
As this body grows old
With adventures unfinished
And stories untold

So I wake each new day
With this vow on my tongue
I will live well today
For I’ve only begun.

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ever crying “O”

IMG_1566i walked the dog in winter
with senses open full
and heard a maddened moaning
in a symphony of wind
she called to me
this mourning tree
her naked arms outstretched
she drew me close
and whispered
a secret i now forget
but i see her
in my half-life dreams
a halo, red and gold,
children playing at her feet
laughing, running, growing old
the secret, the secret,
it haunts me
it had to do with life
or some other grand illusion
frozen now in time
why does she weep
my mourning tree
ever crying “O”
for children grown
or mothers gone
or a small blue planet’s

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At the root

A base topic;
Base, basic, basal, and
Don’t touch my ganglia.
If one could only pay attention,
I am telling a story, convoluted though it may be.
At the core of the apple, idea, person,
Seeded within
The necessary flesh
Is: the truth;
Some arsenic, and the occasional worm
Wriggling its way surface-word,
To poison the lips.
We are flawed and pitted
One against the other
But I didn’t start out to write about that.
Back now
Back to the root.
A baby born to need and wail and love
Wrapped in a cloak of abuse and neglect and set free
May transcend
May reach deep within
May heal
May become something beautiful.
And here’s the difficulty,
May become a monster.
And when we meet them, how can we tell the difference?

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