Thursday there were paper clips
transmogrified over a burner:
anealed, quenched; now gifts
offered like tempered chocolate,
traded for chamomile and solitude.
Chemistry with poems in the margins.
The burning log, asthmatic nearly,
sounds like sheets beating on
a distant neighbor’s clothesline–
like Fall through long hair, she says.
Oct. 12, 2014
Pickets, cyclone, thicket, larch
capitulate to words unlatched,
loosed to brush a bleeding strap:
sunset cirrus clouds stretched tight
in watercolor worlds she writes.
For my daughter, Hana.
Feb. 2013
I’m dedicating my 50th blog to my wonderful daughter, Hanae Rose. Here is a poem I wrote for her 13th birthday. And while you’re reading it, I’m going to be busy deleting all the really lousy posts I’ve written the last two years.
Icarus at Night
I held a thought,
then lost it.
Among the flecks
on deck of night,
I lost the speck–
impractical
and wordless–
killed by blots
of sweet dreams
blown aloft.
Enjambed
by failing lunar flight,
I rose again
from canyons cleaned
of rotted dreams;
fell into folded furrows
sown
with memories of a
sun-washed face
resembling my own.
For my daughter
June 2012
A Literary Journal
An Independent Nondiscriminatory Platform With No Religious, Political, Financial, or Social Affiliations - FOUNDED 2014
A Satirical Word In Your Shell-Like Ear
inken thought
Musings on poetry, language, perception, numbers, food, and anything else that slips through the cracks.
what if poems could be symphonies, and people their orchestra?
All That Glitters Is Not Gold
a childhood poetry archive.
Random thoughts that are too big to fit into 160 character blocks...
Just another day of gossip in paradise.
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