“Rocking Horse”
A wooden wonder
rocking its life away here;
Away, away, my dear.


“Mother Robin”
Mother robin, your tears of gold drip from the stars this evening.
Such sorrow seeps from the skies,
through the clouds, and into our hearts.
What a grip hath Grief on the mind of the mourning!

The crag splays shards of turquoise,
shards of speckled glass that were your young.

You are alone,
alone among feathers and splattered yolk.
Alone, save for Grief and his piercing stare.



“Anymore”
Tonight I dream of tomorrow,
of all the things that will never be;
Of children who smile before they’re born,
Of war that ends before mothers mourn.

Someday, someday this is what I hope to see.
Someday, someday there will be no sorrow.

Yesterday I dreamt of today,
of all the things I had wished for;
Of ancestors and bloodless land,
Of snaking ivy and crisp, cool sand.

Someday, someday this is what I hope to see.
Someday, someday there will be no sorrow.


“Desert Rain”
Cactus Goddess--draped in thorns,
water sloshing through your veins--
Do you feel my thirst?

Just a drip, just a drop 
of dew from your lips
would allow me to see tomorrow’s sunset.

Arizona summer air is so still,
too still for my lungs.
Shatter it! Shatter it, clouds above!
Shatter the stillness with desert rain.

Cactus Goddess--draped in blossoms,
water crashing against your stomach walls--
Do you feel my pain?

Just a driplet, just a droplet
of dew from your lips
would allow me to see tomorrow’s sunrise.

Please! Just a drip, just a driplet!
Just a drop, just a droplet!
Would allow me to see the birth of tomorrow!
The birth of tomorrow!

Alas! Praise be to you, Mistress of the sand! Alas! Praise be to you!
These coyote tears come seeping through the sand,
straight into my mouth.
Water from your lips....


“Do You Feel the Sun?”
When you look into my eyes, 
do you see the stars?
When I hold you close to me, 
do you feel the sun?
Do you think to yourself, ‘She is the one’?
Or am I just another pebble among this rocky shore?


“My Ruptured Soul”
Beneathe this battered body is heart more bruised than the flesh encasing its little song of sorrow.
It beats through the night like a slain wolf calling to its Mother Moon.

Beyond this blood is pain that wounds will never brandish.
There is damage to each
artery,
vein,
and capillary....but that is trivial in comparison to my ruptured soul.

These burns are nothing to me,
for I died so long ago.
These burns are nothing to me,
but I feel not what you feel.



“The Raven’s Egg”
The raven’s egg is more of a jewel to me than any other glittering gem or bleeding ruby;
For it’s the creation of my oldest friend--an ancient fellow soon to meet his end.

When each and every one of his bones has decayed, here in my hands will be the egg he had laid.
And I will cherish it ‘til the moon fades away; I will hold it close ‘til my very last day.

A dear friend, a good friend, the best you’ll ever have,
will someday be torn from you....
and then what shall you do?


“This Babe”
This babe smells of lilacs freshly bloomed,
but she knows not what a lilac is.
This babe feels of silk freshly loomed,
but she knows not what silk is.
And my love for her she knows not of, this babe.



“The Fairy Kingdom”
If you open the gate past the rose garden
behind the monastery,
you will find a cascade that flows to a lily pond.

And if God granted you the gift of curiosity, 
you peer into a lily and be astonished by your discovery; 
for it is the Fairy Kingdom of the sort that exists in fables.
They are the most pleasant of folk, with delicate wings that sparkkle in the sin’s golden kiss.
Their chatter is most peculiar, rapid and clipped little speech.
They are hospitable and couteous; they’ll beckon you become one of them.

And if you give them your consent, you will thrive among them 
‘til the moon smiles and the sun weeps.

So remember, there is a gate past the rose garden behind the monastery
that’ll lead you there.


“Feathers”
If all my feathers faded in the wind,
then would I still fly away?
Would I still dream away?
Would I 
would I
be able to live?


“The Forest’s Song”
Beating my wings to the forest’s song;
Soaring above all that’s right and wrong.

My nest is as golden as the sun reborn,
cradled by a wise willow, old.
Tomorrow my children will take flight
and seduce the skies for their own.
Have fear clouds! Have fear for my daughters are bold!

Beating my wings to the forest’s song;
Soaring above all that’s right and wrong.

I remeber when this land was fresh with corn,
with kernals all covered in autumn mist.
And now there are cookie-cutter houses
with cookie-cutter people.
What gingerbread men, each with his gingerbread fist.

Beating my wings to the forest’s song;
Soaring above all that’s right and wrong.


“Again”
O fragile faries of evenings past, 
of weeping fires and ocean glass;
Fairies of all there is and ever will be,
allow me to see! Allow me to see!
Let me gaze upon what was here a night ago,
for I want to see yesterday in all its glory.
Memories are fickle creatures
and I can not rely on them alone.
I want to experience it for the first time....again.


“Fragile”
Tender as the sparrow’s wing
is the wish my heart doth sing.
Fragile as the waning night
is this dream’s gentle bite.
Delicate as the rose’s sweet bloom
is this hope my heart doth loom.
O voracious desire,
how my heart screams of you--this blinding fire!


“Lady”
T’was a fair maiden imprisoned in a tower,
who sang with a voice of honey to pass every hour.
Grief gripped her heart,
for her true love she did part.
He was the noblest knight,
always willing to fight
for the love of his life,
who he wished one day to take as his wife.

One day, a knife was pressed to her heart,
for this lonely life she yearned to part.
Her knight came riding upon his gallant steed
to rescue his lady, who was so much in need.
Dear Jesus! Woe! He came to late,
only to gaze uppon such dreaful fate.

His lady, his lady, his most beautiful lady,
her gown as white as angels pure,
was stained in her own blood.


“Just Scream”
Lying in bedd on summer’s eve,
rumpled sheets thrown aside.
It’s not as if I can sleep anyway.
Because somewhere
there’s a child without his mother.
Because somewhere 
someone just lost his baby brother.
This world’s always bleeding,
as if murder is as common as tea.
Mother Earth, why don’t you  just scream
for all this sorrow?
for all the wounds that will never heal?
for all the tears that will never dry?
Why don’t you just scream?

It’s not as if I can sleep anyway.



"Purity's Possession"
Morning enamels each petal, each blade of grass, and
each hair upon the fragile fawn's back. How dew clings
to roses, like the mother to her little opus---
the creature suckling at her tender teat.

Man sings of darkness, of death, of a pall of pain
that will reign 'til he returns to the worm beds
beneath our feet.
The worm beds that birthed him.
For he came from the depths of the earth
long ago.

Every fairy and every sprite illuminates the forest,
protecting the sycamores from the evil lurking through the
shadows of his mind.
Man’s mind.

Flowers never bloom there.
Light is never seen there.
Love fell into the arms of Satan and was crushed so
long ago.

Tomorrow is man's day...nevermore Purity's possession,
for Purity is of yesterday and yesterday is no more.


"For the Colored Man"
If the soil were darker than a brown paper bag, would
we spit and curse at it as if it were a dog?
If the night were any blacker, would we send it to the
back of the bus, so gum can to cling to its pants?

No, that's what we do to the colored man.



“Words”
Just a whisper thrown into my mind,
echoing in my empty room,
bouncing between the walls and
off the ol’ photograph
you slipped under my door years ago.
If only words were meant to stay
for me to cherish another day.
But all I have is the ringing
the ringing 
of your words
in my mind.


“Ballerina”
A glass figure
smothered in glitter and gold
with tinsel draped across her 
pale neck and shoulders.


“Wounded Dreams”
Why must we wound our dreams and 
allow them to die?
With blood painted on the trees within our hearts?
Like a wolf trapped in December--
clamped by the ankle--
and never discovered ‘til three fortnights later....
and the poacher finds nothing but
blood painted on the trees.
No tears within his heart for the beast of our dreams.


“Cicada”
Wings of window glass
and pistachios for heads,
so fragile, so weak.


“Someday”
I don’t want to be an empty shadow all my life.
I want to heal pain from all thier souls, ablate thier strife.
I don’t want to be just another hue of gray.
I want to jump out and let them hear all I’ve to say.
Someday, I’ll be more than me.
Someday, I’ll be more than me.


“Beautiful Night”
What a beautiful night.
Look at the stars in the sky.
Blackness above us.
Blackness below us.
Blackness all around.
What a beautiful night.


"Winter Star”
 Have you ever wished you were a baby bird?
Fragile as a winter star?
All coiled in your shell, with your beak tapping at turqoise walls?
Demanding to explore the mountains, the desert, the sea?

Have you ever wished you were a baby bird?
Delicate as a leaf in November?
Screaming with your brothers for a bleeding worm?
Melting in their blackened feathers as the still summer air slithers south?

Have you ever wished you were a baby bird?
A weakling of the night?
Stretching your bones and tumbling from the cradle into a world so plutonian
that the sun has withered away?

Or is it just me?
The fledgling inside of me?


“Darker than Hell”
Some of my dreams lurk in forests darker than Hell,
where they devour less dreams
weaker dreams
deformed and outcasted dreams
that will never surface my soul.
The muder of something more than flesh and blood.
The murder of fledgling hopes that were never meant to fly.
My heart cries but is not heard in this forest darker than Hell.


“Little Leaf”
Wrinkled by the forest light
is a leaf of withered sight;
a body twisted by autmn age,
melting into worn stones and river reeds.
Little slice of oak so tall,
now is the time to welcome the ripening of fall!


“Lily”
Tear the lily from the bee,
and lilies no more have we.
But leave the arthropodic gem;
let him be, and then all of our mother-dears shall have a lily.


“The Poet”
Craning over this scroll, 
quill engraved in my palm, 
my heart sometimes ponders if they'll ever read this. 
My heart sometimes ponders if they'll ever appreciate the works I've bled for. 
My hands are wounded by the thorns and roses I write of so religiously. 
They inhabit my imagination, in a land where sparrows sing forever. 
Will these words cling to their minds once they've drank them or 
will they be ablated and melt into the years? 
Do they see words and love them 
with a passion greater than the sun hath for the moon? 
Do they love them as I do, dreaming of them always? 
Yet diction's symmetry is so foreign to them that I doubt
 it is possible for them to love each word, each syllable, as I have. 
Will these words slink into their anguished souls
 to heal the sorrow breeding within them or 
will they slither into the stars and be forgotten? 
They will be forgotten, I assure you. 
They will be cast to Pluto's kingdom for all eternity 
and lose themselves among the demon's wandering young, 
for words have no meaning anymore. 
No definition! No definition! 
They are nothing to anyone but the poet, is this not the truth? 
Is this not so? 
It must be, for they are all blind. 
They are illiterate, scornful swine! 
Or are they more enlightened than they seem? 
Perhaps they do understand. 
Perhaps they are not what they seem, as things so often what we take them for. Do you feel the mad dancing of their hearts when these silver words seep into their heads? 
Do they feel each step, each beat, each throttle of the body to the music ringing silently from their books? 
My heart sometimes ponders. 
My heart sometimes wonders if the life of a poet is worth living at all. 


“Forgiveness”
The lark's song seeps through the still summer air so serenely,
as if she has seduced the skies for her own.

She swoons the stars---the dying stars---praying for forgiveness
before they disappear with dawn,
praying for the love that never rained upon her as a fledgling.
Mercy is all she sings for.
Mercy for the bird with soiled wings.
Wings soiled by her sins.
Her sins of yesterday no more.
And she prays for forgiveness....the only thing that matters in her tortured life.


“God”
God
Almighty, merciful
Forgiving, loving, smiling
Beauty, creation, abortion, morbidity
Destroying, hating, cackling
Cold, malicious
Devil


“Camouflage”
Soldiers are their very own breed
Are camoflauge suits 
the distinction?
They run like spiders
Is that stealth instilled
or learned young?


“The Church”
Cold, oppressive
Persecuting 'demons'
Teaching me to ostracize men
Marble cage


“Window”
Window
Illuminated, glorious
Opening, streaming, disclosing
Happy, joyous, mirthful
Window