Category: Poetry

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Bistro Patio

  The coffee molting in that licked cup is stale already, gone the steam, gone the beans, gone the money-bagged Peruvian bean man, never stood a chance against this batch. Doesn’t matter anyhow the cup’s not there for consumption anyhow, the cups there are all for aesthetics—my fancy word for look at me in my mood, look at

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Summertime Afternoon in the Midwest

  The sky is thick and dreamlike with clouds, great battleships of cotton and luster sailing to an endless azure tune— on my back beneath the poplar tree I listen to the steady whine of the horse fly. Rain has come over the central plains in torrents, heavy running along the window panes heavy with oblong droplets pelting skin, duck from backdoor to garage, … Read More Summertime Afternoon in the Midwest

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Humans

  The mountain shudders under great weights of gusts and snow, groaning and creaking the six English climbers huddle rope-tied to rocks and tree branches listening for avalanches. And I sit here, at this metal patio table, so arbitrarily square, in a humid afternoon swatting flies and wondering what I will have for lunch.

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4:00pm

  Little boy, blue jeans to the belly, puffs his little red cheeks— his pointed spectacles, falling down that button nose, watch as he blows his mind into the trumpet.

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Fresh Fish with Aloha!

  he called out, his knotted arm, knitted and purled, pumping a bucket the size of a table. I heard his low voice as I walked by him, say to his boy holding the rods that no one’s biting these days no one’s calling. I imagined him, then, standing on that barnacle-crusted pier, two rods in hand fishing for people. Scooping up chums who … Read More Fresh Fish with Aloha!

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Breath Work

  She sighs, constantly. Always the sigh, sighing herself to wishful elegance, whisking the whites to rising peaks, she counts herself backward,

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Sonnets of Indigo

  Water droplets bead up from the small slice in this surfboard; epoxy got nothing when it comes to run ins, when it comes to used boards and low budgets. When it comes to this universe; what I think I might want; the cat who stretches himself beside me– I got nothing. Petting the cat, he purrs then bites me. I got nothing. Nothing … Read More Sonnets of Indigo

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127 Percent

  Evening light pales into my windows from behind the palms, piloting in a fruity breeze to stir the pages at my desk. I’m 30 percent writing, 25 percent sipping tea, 9 percent listening to jazz beats & 63 percent certain my poetic Muse has taken the day off.

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Ahead

  In the azure distance sails a boat with one triangle sail, bowing east, heading east. Her going is unnoticed by those practicing yoga, spinning frisbees, balancing on purple slack-lines at this grassy knoll at the base of the volcano. I cannot take my eyes off her, so sure of herself, so pointed— something so certain of direction deserves applause.

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Luminescent

  I will thresh the mind with both hands; fingertips of golden afterglow to select only nuggets of naked tranquility; to throw rugged shards of infancy behind goose-like shoulders, to cede this habit of bare toes on dust. In overthrowing infamy, brevity demands we be good in the mind, good in the body, good in the soul—and what cements into habit dyes the soul … Read More Luminescent

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Lewis Wharf, Boston; 1978

  Fall colors warm her sweet face, deep reds and blushing oranges snuggling into the gentle wrinkles at her cheeks; the low light off the fading greens bounce from the brown of her sweater to my eyes, the softness I cannot myself believe. Contained in one tiny, aging human is the breath of ages seen and past— each petite wrinkle is a memory of … Read More Lewis Wharf, Boston; 1978

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Soften the Jaw

  & tell the abyss the darkness is temporary. The moonlight is warming & the breeze which sweeps transposes the seeds and growth is in the underbrush. Tell the abyss it’s nearly dawn—that time runs parallel to furrowed brows and intersects