Whalesong (a poem)

needles scraping bone,
heel and sole.

sliding cold inside your boots
you bear the weight of all you love,
while inches underneath
the giant gods of other worlds relay
their shepard songs.

empty aqua loneliness.

they disappear,
soaring softly into darkness and
sinking,

willing,

deeper than the sky is wide.

their dreams are of a solid state;
the breath that leaves their backs a
force of nature,

strong enough to rent the field on which you stand that now,
to us,
seems still as stone.

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Where No Man Comes (a poem)

this void of land,
this spear of sea,
divides with lonesome lines the air.
the livyers, swaying, fold with fate
as eons fade from being,
and hearts of stone pulse beneath
the fragile frame
of mountains.
each beat an eternity;
a flicker consuming
the rise and rot
of ages.
the pitiful remains
of some benign beings persist
as subtle blurs in elevation;
refined beyond recognition
by the birth and death
of countless seasons.
no witnesses remain
which might exclaim, yet maim this majesty.
those which have are all but disappeared,
their true undying legacies
rebuilding what was ground away.
their lives unending
mending
all those scars begat by greed.

Driving on a February Night (a poem)

ahead, red eyes glare through the dark
as overhead, bulbs burn brighter than any star.
great wheels roll and rumble, beneath and behind
and the rattle and scrape of a hundred gears pulses away,
relentless; unaware and unmoved
by your restless writhing.

behind your eyes, that broken mind
and bleeding heart beat on and on
in stubborn time with some pretense of strength,
but that’s gone too, you fear.

outside, the frozen tundra sifts
from white, to blue, to grey,
until the austere sky reflects
and swallows whole its solid self,
leaving wisps of winter dancing in its wake.

how long now til familiarity fades
and you might breathe some novel air and smile
at the shapes and sounds of things you’ve never seen?
those echoes everlasting might soon die,
if only you could feel some promise below your feet;
the world with all its weightlessness pushing back
from underneath.

In the Rain (a poem)

she smiles.
nose pressed against my neck
as rain dives all around,
clapping the soil
with moisture;
filling our breaths
with the sweetness of spring.
I kiss her head as hair,
wild in wind,
envelopes my face.
I used to convince myself that
beauty and cruelty came only
as accomplices.
I was so wrong.
I love you, I whisper.
she smiles.

Return to the Fjord (a poem)

as a child I watched those hills
rippling and shivering in an emerald haze.
the mighty birches swayed with the breeze,
the ancient tides sloshed in on kelp-dressed granite shores,
the sun melted lazily into rocky, barren peaks.
and in the coldest dark, the moon would come to dance
on the water

and I came back one last time
to scrape my heels on salt-stained rocks,
to feel the feathered fingers of mossy twigs brush my face.
aching to taste the earth on the wind and remember,
remember,
the breath of owls in the night;
the sweet stench of shore at low tide;
the warmth of the garnet sun as it chased away the stars.
but now the trees are gone;
the hillside scarred;
the waters grey.
where ground had been, now lies the floor
and walls, fences, climb higher each day
to keep out the world.
fumes fill the heavy air and the stones succumb,
as if to fear,
as engines roar to pave the road
through the land that man should not have found.

Where Home Used To Be (a poem)

there is a place by the sea
where unburdened timbers jut from the ground
in neat little rows;
blades of grass in a field of stone.
monuments of mothers, fathers, children, stand
all weathered by the salt and wind
and laced with wild roses.

silence, here, is holy,
broken only by the waves that wash the shore
and spray the air,
and fill the space with echoes.
gliding softly over all, from hill to hill
and back again, like all those happy voices did
so long ago, when I was young.

Running at Dawn (a poem)

breaking morning with the birds,
she glides beneath the rising sun,
a vapor trail of sweat and spent breath
drifting in her wake.

muscles taut, brow poised,
a stream of hair – airborne ribbons,
and stones shudder beneath her feet.

thundering along the hillside,
she beholds the world as it fades from grey
and the truth of things is shown
with the death of night.

another mile and she’ll turn around,
set course for home,
return.

maybe.