sunshine finds breath
warming bones
drinking awareness
echoes in cobwebs
poetry: just lean close, please
when you look at words long enough, you realize they mean. i am.
—Neil, unpublished poem
he was peter
and i his wendy
telling stories
of horse rides with cranes
of nursing babies
of watering gardens
and petting cats
poetry: leaning lavender
go where sun meets
earth, under oak trees
warmed by summer’s
last breath. gather
my limbs, bundling
tight my fragility
and budlike body
until moon sighs
starlight, signaling
nature’s end of shift.
hang me by strings
near warm yellow
fabric until withering
i transform, forever
locked in wild
fragrant splendor.
Photography: Fall Sunset and Harvest Moon
“Drink in the moon as though you might die of thirst.”
—Sanober Khan
I recently make a trek to my local park to photograph the sunset and the moonrise, both on opposite sides of a pond. I tried something different, listening to music in my earbuds. It felt more immersive, and private. I even found a secluded spot under an oak tree to do a little light dancing (recovery and aging sucks).
So come with me, dear friends, to visit golden light hitting my little town, and see how the harvest full moon looked as it emerged from the clouds. Please do let me know if you have a favorite image, and I truly hope you have a fantastic week!
Continue readingpoetry: we gather
oh, world of screens
of water snatchers
of robot plague doctors
you don’t understand
what golden light does
poetry: tonight, part two
and when i crested the hill, i found the resonant moon birthing through a cloud canal. its hips wiggled bit by bit through a thickness trying to hold it back, like too-tight bands or pocketed joints or air made sticky by consumption. i watched its indecision battle compulsion and felt moved by its need to light. astute wind arrived with seven geese, who rang out alarm, calling dead grasses to attention, and stirred leaves within my chest. oh, broken pendulum. cracked stone. pillar leaning toward earth. allow affection to consume me, moonlight to penetrate aggrieved bones, until all upon the hill moves as one, a lunatic motion of worship for all the ways we ache to live another day.
Continue readingpoetry: tonight
pain pain pain pain
pain pain pain pain pain pain pain
pain pain pain
pain pain pain pain pain pain
pain pain pain pain pain
pain pain pain
poetry: pushing petals
poetry: canning
my mother turned 70
and took up canning,
a fun hobby to fill
her retirement time.
she proudly delivered
a box to me—jams and
salsa, and sauce. colored
love trapped in hard
glass with golden tops.
“you should get bags
of rice and beans too,
every week,” she said,
touching my hand.
in case.
in case.
my mother turned 70
and took up canning
because she’s worried
we won’t have enough.
poetry: artificial sky
robot man grabs my hand
tells me not to worry.
here’s a new sky, new water,
screens on every baby.
no worries, no worries,
robot man is here.
you are not required.