I've had the mare since she was foaled.
Now she is old.
She was born on the 29th of October
My son's birthday.... more »
In my field, I built a fire today
Dried alder leaves, molding fence posts,
A grain sack filled with orange twine.... more »
How do we mourn, celebrate, bereate, complain?
How are we born, mature, dominate or reign?
What are the metaphors for lust and love?
How are we differentiated below and above?... more »
A discrete brown wrapper
Encases my goat
No floozy curls or upturned horns
Sensible oxford brown straight coat.... more »
After the asking is ended
Before reason takes charge
There is the torrent of rage
Pungent incense of offense.... more »
Grip the words firmly in your glove
Feel the stitching with your hand
Now suck in the pitched air
Focus on the space... more »
The coreopsis and the catonia astor
Divide the hill.
Back off! You're blooming in my face.
Can't you see the thorns you wield... more »
Why does it bother me
That the juice of the plum
At the heart of the poem
Should not be maroon?
Did I not feel the heartbeat
Of a mother birthng her loss?
As the fledging left her hand
Jar shattering, ripe womanhood
What was that color then?
We all know it. Saffron? No.
Fuchsia? Close. Not pink, nor purple,
And, definitely, not maroon.
By concentrating on the hue
I escape the pain
Of my vermillion loss.