Husk of possibility
Digging up arthritic roots
A buttress belldrop out for beauty.
We forgive ourselves for the folly
For which we are wholly to blame.
And instead take on fate like a
Lit flame left out in the rain.
Drop this stick, pointed green like a pen—
Watch it grow into a mangrove despite
Your best efforts to drown it.
Water and weed, we are in-between
We are shouting out through surface tension
We are sturdy like an island—
Current stripped of sand.
Sometimes all you need to root
Is another just like you.
Poem 66 Edited – Poem 66 Original
the Water and the Wake
When the sea cracked out came a memory
She was a tree limb, she is a ship—all at once
Rootless and full of sky. A ship mistress
Ark’d against the mast, in ecstasy over trouble-waters,
Gulls gailing siren cries make for eyes, her chin
The endless compass of the sea. How many years
Did she live under-sod before they un-buried her bones
How many more can she hold her breath,
Drifting on the whims of a headwind.
Poem 65 Edited – Poem 65 Original
I opened the eye of Orion to watch the summer flicker
Downward like a fist-full of crinkled paper.
Some pique with seasons, others pique with time.
As if she eased the tips of those trees to her white-bright match
The hillside woke to embers, over and over, back to the gravel.
A child, entranced by their dance, she points them into step with
Her pink un-ringed finger. She thought perhaps
she would be more graceful. I want to tell her:
It’s falling. When you stand again, then, they will applaud.
Poem 59 Edited – Poem 59 Original
Meet My Twin Poem: Poem 73 Revised
Two score before my parents wed my father held the branches of three trees:
Peach, Apricot, Loquat; their sapping cylinders fresh leaking of life,
With his knife bore them holes together, and bound them with leftover string.
They grew entangled like the knots of unkept ambition, their fruition
Was never compromised by their scars. Here we are
Slack by our tendons, held together barely by bark
But you and I know the best part about broken branches.
They must grow back.
Poem 55 Edited – Poem 55 Original
All the history I know
Is the way the dust blows
Sanding the surface to shine.
A west so wild the night howled
At its own shadow and slept
Belt-buckle out to witness Sirius.
The metal on the tip of his boots
An oasis of light, with chinking stroll
He stole the summer and planted
His tumble-weed seeds in Mojave, with love.
Pan wanderer, look away, from this city
Lawned in suburbia. I remember the desert.
I remember the heat. The heartbeat
Of the sun on the valley
when we wrote in ropes the west wild.
Poem 53 Edited – Poem 53 Original
Oh! The Earth bursts out between these weeds
Feeds the trees, please return these seeds as I left them:
With potential. Holy holy incredible the decibel of husk musk matter
We are a splatter of star latter, what-ever with weather, we sometimes
Grow… didn’t you know…
I thought is so, to sew the seeds of my father’s weeds and wait
By the mounds with resounding sunshine. With enough love
We will grow.
And when we grow the soil knows…
To look for seeds.
Poem 52 Edited – Poem 52 Revised
I am a poem from this side of the states to t’other
Map-scratch these lines and find your trails rugged
With these words, I declare them satisfaction in roads mid-construction
Highways heaved of trees; I am progress—if poetry
Moves forward—I am the windshield protecting inspiration
From misfortune’s wind and ambitious stones.
Thumbs out! Or clutching nubs once pencils. I am
Poetry where I stand or wherever I once stood. Come
Lace-up with me some afternoon baked in the mountainside
I am poetry aching for a destination, for it is destiny
Sending me to you.
Poem 37 Original – Poem 37 Edited