The Good Earth

Falling backwards
Into the unfolded arms
Of blank books
Plowed like farms
In neat rows
With sticks and stems
Watered black by ink
Hemorrhaged from pens
In sequestered corners
And cluttered vaults
As the bank of my soul
Brings all transactions to halt

So I may fall backwards
Into folding arms
And scribbled hands.


Write Cycles

These moments forming
Drip like leaky thoughts
Pooling in posterity
All they contain or impart
Drops with directionality
And the thin skin of surface tension
Exploding as they collide
Into all I’ve been- all I am.
Too many moments to mention
But each sip remains.
I am the same. I am changing.
I am forever changed.
I am the moment forming,
The moment collected,
And the moment evaporated away.

Time is Zebra-Striped

in those quiet moments in-between
all that is and will be
I hear the sounds of battle.
I think
A hidden war rages
in places I cannot see
I sense my future-
The full scope of me-
dancing as Damocles
merry in all I cannot see
a hair's breadth from the final release
of failure and farewell
but then the in-between ends.

Time begins again.
I look for my normalcy bias
if found, it carries me through
to the familiar ground
on which I frolic ageless in time

and if the war does rage,
surely it isn't mine?


(An early a.m., half-excavated piece.)

I stood at Trevi Fountain
In younger skin
I flicked in a foreign-faced wish
Currency from a different place-
An unknown world.
I was a silly girl invoking petty fortune,
Forgotten as soon as the memory
Began sinking into the crystal waters
Racing resiliently over the stony terrain
I wished under a different name
As I raced towards today

That wish sank in silence,
In secret depths it laid
And I paid to bury the wish,
But not the wishmaking
I cannot recall the face of it,
Or know if it became, or sank away,
But I cannot lose the day
I wore my youth
To Trevi Fountain,
And fed its open mouth
With my foreign desires.

Perhaps in the watery grave
My wish remains
Or perhaps I’ve worn it

Total Depravity

How desperately dark
shadows cast
through human hearts
whose goal and task
is parlaying who they are
into all they ask
to get.

How desperately dull
are human desires
once noble, now fallen
to the basest of mires:
self-adoration, deception,
and the ritualistic fire
of competitive conversation.

While the raging beast
of gnashing ego
scratching feet, grinding teeth,
snarling, snorting as it burrows
into souls through caging flesh
feasts on the low
of spirit.

Silent I

I know how it looks
the jumble
Of consonants and vowels
but the I is silent.

Filling pages, filling books
thin and humble
with continents of vows
and high-hopes heaven-sent

Spilling forth in deception,
Painted masquerades,
but the I remains silent
In the ticker-tape parade.

On Isolations and Temptations

I wish I could tempt you.
I wish I possessed the fire
To heat your blood,
To kindle desire,
To caress your sordid nature

Which must likewise thrive beneath.

I lay out my banquet,
Night after long night,
And under cover of darkness
You take flight
Into numb, dreamless sleep

Or in dreams I’m uninvited.

You sleep alone;
I keep turning
Lost in the ache, in the why,
In my yearning
To understand your distance,

Or why I wake to emptiness.