Sunday, December 21, 2008

Winter Solstice

came into my window wild with robin songs
and turkeys trots.

I step upon persimmons on a cold and cold ground
and place the seeds and lift them to the sky for future feed.

Today dear friends will Marry, and tomorrow's daylight grows.

Monday, November 17, 2008


Leaves golden and crumble twist through air and to the ground
while windy gusts blow through the woods and pile them in a mound
to mold and darken with decay into the winter's womb
returning Life into the Earth, delivered from the Tomb
in Spring.

Tuesday, October 28, 2008


have been plopping to the ground for weeks, but I just started picking them and popping them in buckets to just empty on the road for tires to roll upon a while to take their hides away.

The inner hulls are washed and dried and waited on to crack one day.

Sunday, October 26, 2008


are landing now and loading up the house
with orange and black.
They stink (as sharply as they bite)
and scurry into cracks.

The swarm and scurry of today
means winter is not far away.

Monday, September 15, 2008


the man fell

the temple rose
in sweet ash

truth to

Wednesday, August 6, 2008


nothing is there
and so
i will be

Wednesday, July 16, 2008


slip into my fingers from the sweetened tips of twigs

Monday, June 30, 2008


dogs plop in the pond
having come full circle
sniffing, smelling, scouting, searching
for the furries of the farm

i slowly stroll behind them
with my little bag of berries
and my itchy scratchy arms.

Thursday, May 15, 2008


flows into my crevices and flowers into phlegm.

Wednesday, May 7, 2008


i'm in the bees. they smell my breath. they do not fear the sting of death, and only let me take as much as they decree.

it's good when such sweet sticky stuff can glue true friends both old and new.

i look at them, and know they're True.

Sunday, May 4, 2008


dropped pink plopping corn seed to the ground in the center of the hallowed spot, then turned and turned a twisting swirl outward from the center, stopped, and softly shuffled dirt with naked feet from side to side until the meat from last year's tender ears now dried and dyed for planting here is covered with a softened dust.

earlier I scraped the stones from ground to smooth the dirt into nice beds of flattened soil. my skin exposed, no tanning oil to come between the Sun and me, and wind sweet wind.
I smell.
I see.

Monday, April 28, 2008

burning man tree

my friend and son and i went to a hill to burn a standing tree in full moonlight. we tumbled sticks into the night and burned them with a brilliant light that slowly swirled around the trunk and wayne plucked banjo strings while drunk with parker telling tales of times behind us.
as we watched the flame fly up the limbs and spend its embers as saffron sands i stand and smell the sweet and good and listen to the fingers fling against the banjo's singing string and watch the shadows from the moon withdraw to hide from heat released from sparkling wood.

this summer i will also stand and watch this heat consume the Man, and warm us all with random plan.

Monday, April 7, 2008


drops in and makes itself home in the grooves in the ground as it moves to deeper smoother streams of distance. warmer air makes time disappear in duties designed around the dirt, and all the things that flow up from it. bees need tending to. bees need tending too. i need more bees. and more time. or maybe just sleep.

Friday, March 21, 2008

spring day

tonight's full moon lights poplar buds
and nubs of trillium heads.


earlier this week i met a truly human poet. we finally found a time to talk and she asked about my genre.

before i could reply we were interrupted by the simultaneous demands for attention by an elder and a child.

i could not have answered anyway, until today, when i heard Joanna Newsom refer to a poetaster.

i think that is quite an accurate description.

Monday, March 17, 2008


starting to feed, only 4 hives remain.
now we are begining to receive spring rain.

Sunday, March 9, 2008

Integrity of Memory

Words start as I look at the dog in the sun on the rug by the windowed door. I look through the glass across dry boards of deck into a strip of porch snow protected by the shadow of the handrail which protects me from falling fifteen feet down the hillside below.

I look across the empty air into wooded hillsides shaped by snow and shadows of straight and twisted leafless trees.

I think of this good moment fading fast into the future, and these few and feeble syllables seem adequate for now.


Clover seed is sown in patterns, and bloodroot spreads its flower head,
but Hamish hangs
in Holy Robes
of saffron, black and white
and turns his teeth in turmoil as he stares into the night.