Its starboard light winked once in the glass and —
the ship was gone from view.
Category: Poetry
On Receding Ice.
Neither air nor sea, but both at once, the foam
made its death among the plastic bottles
and cairns of whale bone.
Clay Nation.
A spiral never centred spinning out the night the pot that’s never fired wobbling left to right.
Homecoming.
Each time a jolt— that wheel of stars that sprawling port this skyline slung with cranes this power-hungry system the faceless window-panes this smoke-drift haze this choking air this scraped and scrappy sky the electric promise of the city and the indifference of break-lights.
Ghost, circa 1882.
Where to, miss?
the air whispered
the horses’ bells peeled by the winds
jingling, the horses ready to leave
I turned my neck a little
to see if they were there—
was I ready for a ride?
—but the driver had already turned away
leaving kicked-up dust
of moon-smoke in his wake.
Standing by the Bookshelf.
And for a moment
I was somewhere else.
You remained behind, I think.
No—I don’t quite know
just where you were.
I was in some parallel.
Your arm became another’s arm,
and your skin another’s skin.
Legacy.
If we are all to die
the cornfields left quite cornless
the wheat-fields, withered, dry
the oceans without fishes
the waterline too high
if we too are just drifters
we are subject to the tides
can be drowned beneath the waters
as tempers and temperatures rise
if we are to go under
then first let’s reach the skies
let us bathe in truest moonlight
hear the sweetest lullabies
let us drift in currents wondrous
let us dance together tight
let us say we won’t go quietly
let us say we lived our lives
but in the noise still listen
still learn to read the signs
still stop to think and keep our heads
heed the worries of the night
stop to listen to our children
because they are getting wise
we said they were the future
they've seen right through that lie
we said children are the future
so let us, please, just try!
to understand that we are
as much the free, as much the truly wild
as fishes in the waters
as birds on brilliant skies
as mushrooms blooming nightly
as winging butterflies
as great old eucalyptus
as flower, stem, and vine
and let us please remember
that we are all to die
and children are the future
please let us only try!
to leave the oceans cleaner
to leave the jungles high
to leave the doorways open
to leave the windows wide
let us read the books and write them
keep true memory live
let us hope that there’s forgiveness
that there’s an afterlife
let us hope some higher spirit
has kindness on its mind
hope we haven’t quite lost contact
lost grip, lost voice, lost sight
when we forgot that we’re earth’s children
we lost our power, lost our right
to tell the future’s children
that we know better than the light
know why it breaks in early morning
better than the night-stars bright
that we know better than this planet
because we have our satellites
have worlds here in our pockets
have access day and night
to endless lies or knowledge
to living byte-by-byte
we’ve forgotten it’s not normal
to find love by swiping right
forgotten how to speak the truth
without hatred, without spite
forgotten fear begets regret
fosters war, and famine, flight
forgotten that we all are one
that we needn’t take a side
we needn’t call each other, other
choose only left or right
we needn’t think we are alone
needn’t think in terms of might
then maybe, only maybe
we’ll find safety in the golden flickered light
of fire and easy company
find what our DNA desires
find common pain, and common scars
from common wounds of life
and from those bonds, build something
that makes our time worthwhile.
Mike, the Smoking Monstera.
incense streams smoke
up along the stem
clinging to a branch
and is diffused
through the leaves
rising in ladders
wish-washed
and drawn upward
through their holes
Perfume.
these are
the notes
that mingle
and make
the intricate
scent of
sadness
But By Then It Was Too Late.
We were zebra in the dry-season
grasses scented on the air
trecking the desert
searching
dry.
Magical: Day One 