trapped in a bottle
thrown out to sea
trapped in a bottle
my wishes are three
trapped in a bottle
that’s drunken me
trapped in a bottle
emotions stormy
trapped in a bottle
flashing brightly
trapped in a bottle
this vessel empty
-all posts-
Smoky
Grief is love expressed in tears.
Winter falling
cold gray rainy day
watching winter’s last leaves fall
from my cozy bed
Intentionally blank
We can’t really say anything about anything anymore without first washing it down to meaninglessness.
Ecos
leaves — lovers
of the gentle breeze
trees — brothers
of roots that weave
soil — giver
of life through earth
sun — mother
of golden light’s birth
Enthus¡asm
Be the dot on the exclamation point of life!
Strive & struggle
I am a poet, — though
I’ve yet to write a poem —
when my soul blossoms
and my mind goes free
when I finally let go of
the suffocating shroud
o’er the wildness of me
my beauty will spill out
the ink will overflow and
finally I’ll be able to see
through a sapphire lens
into the heart of infinity
I know I am a poet —
someday — I will be
but the earth hasn’t yet
shattered inside me
I have still only yet got
the seeds of the words
within me; I am learning
and yearning and earning
and living my way toward
being born into harvest
There’s a meteor shower
inside my brain —
stars shooting down
every bright idea
words burning out
before inking the page —
broken-hearted dementia
sleepless engulfing fog —
search and rescue crews
report every line gone
Reeling
fifty hit me
a ton of bricks
insult to injury
for some body
still on the floor
under the anvil
of forty-nine
Unveiled
Much poetry happens in the silence
June — boom!
In Phoenix, summer is a heat bomb that explodes in late June.
Forever lit with the soul of another
Immediate grief is a falling to the knees, a bleeding of the heart, a blow to the soul. Ongoing grief is a getting up; a call to move on; a healing and strengthening; a melding of soul with sorrow, with loss, with life; a transforming of self to renewed being, rebuilt with the leavings of another.
Flustered
My heart beat so hard when I was near him, I feared he could hear my secret longing for him.
journal, age fourteen
Vital correspondences
“Now this may sound nonsense, but that is merely because we are fools. There is an eternal vital correspondence between our blood and the sun: there is an eternal vital correspondence between our nerves and
—D. H. Lawrence (1885–1930), Apocalypse, 1931