Monthly Archives: February 2018

An Element of Rust

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An element of rust remains
Upon the earth and what it contains.
No matter what rain may come
Still there’s rust when the day is done.
Iron towers crumble, boulders fade before the wind.
A question of death and the wages of sin.
Why should you wonder? Put it from your mind.
Rust to soil, then back to human kind.
Imperfect decay, gives birth to perfect form: us.
In all this there’s at least one word to trust,
Life is life, and death is death,
And from both we must make the best.

A Dog Finds


I find a speck. Sniff.
What is this thing? I must know.
To know more, I lick.

I Found Myself Awake

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I don’t remember waking up, I am simply here.
Much like this, my dying then, will one day appear.
Between day and night, this transition,
Between waking and dreaming, those conditions,
The boundary seemed to fade.
Across this river, there was no toll that my soul was meant to pay.
Suddenly I’m dreaming, and just the same awake.
Suddenly I don’t remember when my sleep was forced to break.
Later I shall tire and to another dream then drift,
Where afterwards I’ll remain unable to recall such a rift.

My Shallow Sleep

Shall he remain fallen cold, buried here?
The various pains of living follow him.
And waking up to a grey sky so clear,
A midday light beyond the moon grows dim.
They were followed here, this is nothing new.
They know better than this untrodden path.
Before them, those that followed, they were few,
Fewer still who returned. Dim: this light past.
After they will break as water on rock,
They will scatter as shadows in the light.
Here the new headstones do nothing to block.
Various pains drive residents to flight.
I’ll dream of things unspoken, rest undone,
In my shallow sleep gift under the sun.

Birdhouse

A house of dust and feathers flown,
In an unforgiving wind, too long alone.
A murder of crows jealously guard what they cannot have,
A flock of sparrows, to better fields, fly at long last.
Its weathered wood does not look above to the pale blue sky,
Indifferent clouds do not look down as they float by.
If we ask, these walls might tell of tales past long ago.
A voice on the wind then whispers: “We may never know.”

Thanks to my friend Carole D. For permission to use her photo.

Another Day

Woke up to the sun,

Like any other morning.

At the same time, not.

She Contemplates


She is the watchful in the dusk,
While we’re the waiting.
She stands in the forest dark,
While we’re preparing.
A friend of the ravens and the leaves,
Of melting snow and fallen trees.
Patiently we wait for her to awaken the bees.
Sleeping winter wakes
Springs fluttering eyes, their first look take.
And we the waiting
Gather the first flowers her bees pollenate.
While she, watchful,
Of where to send her first rain,
She contemplates.