Dunes (a poem)

oh, we watch those holes,
those wholesome moans.
the velvet breath.

we coalesce
we lift.
we drift.

rolling, washing through the grass.
the summer sun reflects
across our teeth.

the heat,
the breeze,
we float with ease
and rise to disappear.

oh, that frothing mist awaits:
that great blue orb of the sky

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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.

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.

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.

Birds, or: The Circle Unbroken (a poem)

a ruined bed, two lovers lay,
outside, the first slow breath of day,

a song is sung – a bird, up high,
born years ago, somehow survived

the rip and tear of tooth and claw,
hatched from a nest that did not fall,

a slender limb that did not break
on sleeping earth that did not quake

grown old and tall and straight and wide,
a withered seed that never died,

blown from afar on autumn breeze,
stirred from the ground with careless ease,

a little boy raking the ground
looked to the sky, and heard the sound
of birds

Daydream of a Tired Mind (a poem)

shaking while walking, I look past the streetlamps
and over the rooftops at the hidden hillside.
endless anxieties await me this morning.

I’d be over those hills by mid-day if I tried.

daylong time crunching and endless deciding
and all I desire is the sunlight outside.

birdsong and wind are the sounds of the traffic.
the land at my feet and the sky open wide.

in time I’ll succumb to this life without living.

my name and my items have been left behind.
the pain of my hunger is life’s only torment.
the pulse of the earth and my own coincide.