Peering Over the Hedge

The warm provincial air is good for a poet. Being a naturalist has become a scruple, a tug at the conscience. I thought the urban has a style of living quite unheard of in little villages and hamlets of the province. But I am often overcome with longing to the smell of fresh driftwood fires…

The Passing

to the living poems i know. it is true that in mourning we weep away while lifting the silence of nightfall, its texture turned against the grace of waking hours, the knuckles of our bones – softened on its edges even with the crack of cold and gray that while tears come to our eyes…

Spring Letters

i was married to sadness before i married your thoughts do not fear the melancholy air or the ricochet of midnight reflections, they are my dark children now i give you license to blunt their edges, ruffle their wit, walk them to open fields and return them to me in cascading autumnal rush they were…

Looking for Leodeca

There are two ways of putting about the restless August wind: a thoughtful stroll along the downtown avenue, where the romance of the long sweep of lamp posts is too exquisite. And muddling along to the wonder of the moving pictures, like slipping quietly into an old familiar habit. Among the finer things of a…

Spring Yarns

to the figure by the window, go out with the tide along the shores of places you’ve never been go fly with the seagulls to perch on heights you’ve never seen go swim with the waves into the deepest abyss of the sea come stroll the lush riverbanks side by side with me

Quest

far across a boundless distance i hunt for a certain wing that could carry me to places- to a good spot you’ve never been. i swam the channels of the sea breathed the warm inkling of the wind but in my heart I know i’d come across you again. there is a lonely spirit in…

Unsettled Dot

I dress up my spirit in bohemian longings; and fiddle away in storm- blown villages springing with hope, on rosy mornings across tumble-down houses and wanderings for castles in the air I dress up my spirit in a gardener’s calloused hands, endure recluse with grace, sigh over the wild moorings at the schooners that sail…

Words

Her body ached to be touched by ink-stained fingers that knew the meter and rhythm of her words. Her breast swelled to be caressed by soft-spoken vows and well-worn clichés too exquisite to be denied. Her eyes spoke of immense depths and profound riddles unraveled inch by inch under the intensity of his gaze. This…

Little Things

there was modesty in the nod of her head, the purse of her lips, the click of her heels a quiet dignity as she moved along the stretch of blotchy-looking glass littered with concert posters and poetry reading invitations – pale and crumpled on empty street corners across the narrow downtown, a ripple of laughter…

Miracle

i knew you were mine in a precise moment of satisfaction and indulgence with time i sat meekly on a corner warm of the sunlit sky; behind curtained windows of celestial blue each time i altered the crisp page of a book the fragrance of the autumn wind carries me at your doorstep i suffered…

Scribbles

oh, her songs are sad refrains Of melancholic skies and wintry rains. Spindles and dolls, of sketchbooks torn Pages marred, scribbled and worn.

Delicate Thread

i would not break your heart, and you should know it. i would not make you suffer, and you should know it. we met, but only met to part. if you think it long and mad and discerned that your destiny isn’t written to mine. i shall abandon the space and time to which you…