Category Archives: spirit


Tailwind whips a leeward vortex
My frame obstructs the flow
Marching into the dust devil’s mouth
all parchment crackle and bitterness
I trod on its intentions
its ill and unsavory plots
I continue my patrol



spaces between the chords strummed
and cords of a fishing net

windows of pause, escape, reload,
permeable and flexible

perspiring voids on the boundary of
confinement, capture, rescue

whispering mouths spanning the distance
between vibrating tendons

breathing strands of web
holding a bounty in suspense

I’m not Superman

Teeter and totter,
Mxyzpltk scratches, scribbles.
I reach into a fifth plane
unwind the riddle

I’m not Superman
don’t want to be
earning and angling to be
seen for what I

already see
Satisfied in solving
a puzzle, and proud enough
to cover my own news


She knew that she wasn’t there to be herself. She was playing a role. Perhaps she just helped in some way. Perhaps she was the home base for journeys on which she was not invited. Perhaps she was only small. Perhaps she was the coffee table, sentient and dreaming. Something was off, just enough incongruity in the dialog and timing.

She’d argue, because she knew she was substantial, tangible. She knew. But there were solid terms of her appointment. Her words possessed a gravity that was made of hope and ideas of what could be, but were weak against the absolutes, the larger forces. When she’d break out, occasionally, she’d breathe, but eventually find her way back to that horrible equilibrium that was dancing delicately on pins of hunger and abstinence. Back to the same stage. So much for rearranging the furniture, rewriting the dialog in the next scene.

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Brothers on the mountain
Grey and blue play shivers
At dusk, to get it out before
Curfew and the scolding
Of the moon

Sisters in the field,
Green and gold play tremors
At dawn, tiring themselves before
Breakfast and the swaddling
Of the sun

Lovers under the waves,
Pink and red play tangles
At midnight, grooming one another after
Mass and the awakening
Of the tide

Night Heat

Heat chokes the region.  My lawn is essentially a field of brown weeds, as I cannot justify watering it, save to keep my property value up.  I mow it, and the relative eveness keeps it presentable.  

A ritual and sweaty lunch walk.  An amble with my dog down near the stream along the biking trail.  This weekend, a difficult ascent up a Blue Ridge mountain peak. Outside, feeling alive in the push through the low haze of late July.

The sun fuels me, recharging a body that is frequently tired, exhausted, and fatigued.  It bookends my days in the summer, when the hours of sunlight are favorable and long. Going to bed just after sunset and rising as the sky starts to lighten has me, on most days, missing out on the darkness of night outside.  Waking up during the night, my room has been starkly transformed to blue and grey.  I often step out onto my deck.

Around my home, night isn’t silent, but rather, a noisy orchestra of foxes, birds, cicadas, crickets, and cats.  The heat remains, though tempered and dulled, while inside, a ceiling fan provides a measure of relief as I return. Night noises penetrate the walls. Outside my room, the nocturnal respite from blazing sunshine has the wildlife riled to a peak summer frenzy, it appears.

My dog stirs when he senses I am awake, sitting up or walking over the edge of the bed to pant in my face, as if to let me know he’s also ready for some night air. On nights when I opt to stay in bed, I’ll pat his head and roll over. Moments after ignoring him, he’ll shuffle off, turn, and set himself down hard, expelling a “harumph”. Minutes later, his breathing turns to snoring.

I’ll roll and contort, unable to sleep without a sheet, but alternatively sweating beneath it.  Eventually, sounds will melt into dreams, warmth will transform to slumber.

A break in the sky

Sun storm, horses pounding
through silver boulders,
lowering their heads to
snort vaporous spouts,
mist laminating their blazes,
a trailing cyclone of clouds
braiding their tails,
they land at speed,
full gallop through the lifeless
shadows of March.

Bridges (reposted)

Ancient art in arched
Stones, hewn, stacked
Laboriously and slowly
The moment of truth
Falsework removed, shores
Arch settles, key locks
Feet, hooves, and barrow
Move bank to bank
Implicit faith in achitecture’s
Reposted from 2015