soil softened by the touch of pelting rain
moving slowly to an unfortunate rhythm

i am sitting here and sitting here is killing me

mud running down the clear cut hillsides
unexpectedly overwhelming with the richness of earth and water

elemental in my present state

with the careening waves of slurry
voices ring out in haste as the children run

I am immutable as the song-less stones

shelters await them at the end of this long night
warm cots and a sense of displacement

lichen grows on me like a sylvan beard

in the end they will survive with something lasting
personally bearing the lessons of tragic events

immaculately singular in my permanence
I weather all of these storms
but not without trenchant scars to show for it

thank you for brett
his passing made a difference to me

Christ Mass 2007 Anno Domini

I should write tonight, but I do not feel it
I am always sad on Christmas Eve
Enshrouded in dirty rags
as I am
You would think I would rejoice
but I am not happy this time of year
even though the crisp air
and shallow but genuine good will
are a tonic to the spirit
the chalice of the soul
is crenelated and care worn
the palms of a million devotees
could not make a more sorrowful luster
than the patina adorning the ancient incorporeal skiff
I will someday pilot across the eternal sea
But a joy has been given to me
salvation has been given me
a giddy gracious gift to
me,
but I can't seem to shake this melancholy of the holy days
awash in love and grace
and I am still aware of my existetial singularity
thank God for His grace
Christ for His long suffering
the holy Spirit for His comforting
for I am in need of them all and all that they bear for me

things like other things

stone is a solicitation which plays at being
water a prosperity with a hidden warning
earth a firmament like civilization
air a spirit lead by dueling pressure
sun the most apt icon for God

the hero in a fig

a small pile of regrets
a nest for a skittish bird
fearful of failure
a bird
no bigger than a doubt
wishing for someone
to reveal
that Christlike moment
of raging fortune
where the inert chrysalis ruptures
revealing him
to be an eagle of terrible visage
talons poised over a moment
like the heart beat of history
lean essential and bare

A series of addicts

Their objects scattered
over
the work surface
Some are
useful
some
needful
Many are
refuse
Papers with the bears of facts
Tiny Frisbees
notes of monumental numerals
counting up to
90 hundred 50
Little containers of staples
the ghost of no state
where A picture of a girl
who is very young
much younger than her own
standing next to me
has grown And
what about a share
is getting too small
and that is set

and this may not be true for you

The winter is a season of death
that time to contemplate things that have ended
whether sloppy or neat
some things in the winter END
others are just buried by snow
sometimes to run from people in our lives
I've run from places
for me
and this may not be true for you
places hold a special hell
a spiritual energy that cannot be forgotten
nor damned by the flood of a thousand brick facades
one million softly lit coffee shops
cannot exercise the scars begotten in childhood
and better left forgotten
tied with ribbon and bow
and regifted to a generation far distant from here
vis a vie the richly saturated superfund site
sitting in the soil
an agony that would kill us
should we return

title not available.

There is nary a ghost
who could whisper a joy
greater than
the enjoyment of love

the ghost of a soldier
effaced by death

the woman in travail
of loss or rejection

an apparition
suicidal in failure

these ghosts know my joy
those prisoners who've tasted
the fresh fruit of freedom

Today in the sun
rays struck my ear
warm, oceanic waves
So welcome was the winter sun
as I had suffered much today
This thing this one thing
is mine to recall

The First Days of December

The first days of December
were plagued with the burdens of minutia
mechanisms failed
weather caused fatigue
the wearying onslaught of illness
a surgery looms ever present
stress strains the family closeness
the first days of december made me tired
but I persevered
with the toil of clock and mind and body
I ran up the mountain with the wind
pulling the forest apart around me
felt the freezing deluge on my skin for hours
I wore the earth like a second skin for days
And that whole time
I fought an insousient mechanism
and for the grace of God it is repaired
I visited Brett for a moment
wet and wanting of warmth
I hope he does not feel the same
In these first days of December

In the past
in my dreams
I dreamt of guns
that would not fire
I would pull back
on their triggers
but they would not fire
no matter how hard I
pulled them
I recently had a dream
I was fighting off panthers or jaguars
at a waterfront villa
my wife was trying o shoot one of the mad cats
but her gun would not fire
I was able to adjust the trigger
so the gun was again functional

I am going in soon
for shoulder surgery
I gave up martial arts after
I had a major dislocation
during a test in the dojo
I wonder if the two sets of dreams
are linked to this healing process