If I am caught hold tight the strings against the seagull’s squalor and tight against the fading light. The children shriek a sandy progress and to my expedite delight the winds that harness heaven’s hurry take these piercing shrieks far from me. Far, far above the landscape the corners of me
The waves on south shore Oahu are limp during the winter months. Adrenalized surfing doesn’t take place until April (really mid-May), when surprise swells from the Tasman Sea rip into the bays of Waikiki and Ala Moana. Sudden waves barrel on top of longboards, chipping them against the coral heads exposed during low tide. And such a surprise swell last April!
Available in paperback and e-book, Articulated Soul is a collection of 50 poems in five categories (Kansas, Austria, Indonesia, New Zealand, and Hawaii). These poems catalogue the many fragrant emotions of living abroad on one’s own, the sites and smells, the insecurities. Supplementing the angst are 25 original collages, expanding the metaphor of influence and creativity. Grateful acknowledgment is made to the editors and … Read More Announcement!
Did you ever think you could live this long? That the tongue which rattles the potato-burn ridges of gum would grace the scoop of inner teeth to say love? That love could hold your hand for twice as long as you let it & still remain to brush teeth together in the cool evenings —
Bird says, “set the coffee here, please and oranges if you have them.” Between green wings, that of a bamboo shoot so light green it’s almost wilting, Bird grasps the white ceramic handle and lifts the mug to his beak. From his high perch
I sit in my ribbed backed chair and bow towards Autumn— springtime blending in with the leaves of winter & summer shooting arrows into the black-backed brigade I wonder at the weather these days taught and tense in the morning & easy, nearly sweeping, in the morrow my own marrow sucked by the cascade winds that ravage the lonely landscape looking west for … Read More Pacific
Valerian gardens, gardenias in the rosebushes sunlight twilight and mountain rain makes everything grow like this. Tricolored notebooks rest easy on the table near me and the door opens once more. The door opens. Has been opened. Will be opened.
Fists to the wall, my marble friend, for who hears no chime when the cup is set upon the porcelain? If you lean in close, you’ll hear sentences, casting around the four walls whimpering in rhyme, dripping in furnishing, fur lined over long sips of hot tea cozied up to the counter longing to call it good—
I wake beside your name— half in snore, half without the curling interpretation of window time patters down from the Mountains. And in the hushed dew of the dawn pines the lone, sleepy bee heads forth from hive to seek the outdoors. Mingling together, the mountain and the bee, pollen falls in thick droves from the heavy clouds.