Biography of Chi
I'm alive and I live in Cabot, VT. I practice gardening to attach
myself to the earth and to the birds and green eaters, run two farm houses and teach English Composition at high school.
Mosquitoes And Blackflies
Where do we draw the line between living things that we kill, and those we let live?
All night, insects and pipers sing in the marshes, and the little wet ponds in the woods. They sing, as if the night wouldn't be night without their songs.
On the dirt road along the pond, Several spring songs lay squashed As I went to work yesterday.
A Silk Moth's Heaven
For the drunken giant silk moths that flutter and crash headstrong against the lit panes,
And What If We Were All Gods?
What if our dreams became reality and our reality became dreams? What if the wind had its way
Half-human, half-post industrial, she has lost all sensations of empathy. in-consciously blunted by the pressures of the economic machine, Some would die for profit as some for a little life.
Wildlife Internship: Found Poem
Interning at the Sanctuary provides a great opportunity to gain valuable experience in working with wildlife, natural resources, and environmental education.
The Weight Of Fogs
It halts at the harbor, and stares at the ships in the distance, unmoved by the foghorn.
Singing With The Country Road
At eight to nine pm, I am alone, on the part-gravel part-tarred road, no car ahead of me, none behind.
An American's View Of Europe, From Berli...
The Croats are tanned, the Swedes pink, the Poles the color of powder.
Hitching Post (Found Poem)
White divorced Christian lady or mother, despondent with waking up alone.
Spring Rain Sauna
The evening settles in with a warm spring drizzle that washes through the skies, the trees and the earth.
Writing Against Dying...
This futile servitude, web-enhanced - keying thoughts, rest-less-ly:
A Chipmunk Barks At Me
Now I understand why the chipmunk barked at me, though all I could do then was to wait at the porch, and watch her on her enhanced position on the board below the unfinished ceiling,
The fog comes as we talk,
settles between us
and hides you from me.
It listens for a while,
then passes on, down
the street without a word,
and without taking along,
its trailing dress.