the sea refuses no river

Almost Overlooked

for the sake of this,
subtract the sky

let clouds settle upon me
like slow fog descending

brushed by rain,
this skin,
forsaken for

running rivulets
lost to oceans

evaporating,
leaving the salt of me,
i become sky

there, then gone

Something Like Nostalgia

A feeling,
something like nostalgia,
paints a picture of a memory,

her in pointillism
like

a song on the radio
in and out of static,

rain on a windshield
and the rhythm of the wipers.

The memory of her

there,

then gone,

there,

then gone,

something like nostalgia.

photo: 'city rain' by bill sosin

never give up

Like The Waves

... like the waves,

throwing myself against the rocks

again

and

again

and

again

and again...

... like the waves,

photo: 'waves against rocks' by Herdis Maria Siegert

get in the ring

Runes From A Cachinnating Pugilist

In the ring and on the ropes
But still bobbing, jabbing, weaving

Laughing in the face of
Black eyes,
Boxed ears,
Split lips

This cachinnating pugilist
Spitting blood,
Spilling guts,
Sparring runes

Photograph by: Michael Brennan/Corbis

in search of lost time

Where The Days Go When They Are Done

lost in thought,
hanging from ceilings,
climbing up walls,
crawling across floorboards

in search of lost time,
i stumble upon a room within a room,
where the days go when they are done

there amidst the cobwebs of wasted hours,
a closet full of broken promises
along with things i meant to say to you

sincere apologies and whispered sweet nothings
weathered beyond all reason, encrusted in the silence of rust

so i sit still
lost in thought
in this room within a room,
in a rocking chair
carved from the hollow wood of regrets,
well aware but still wondering
where the days go when they are done

the march of time

Soldier On

Soldier on I tell myself

You made it through the worst of it

Tired in the wake of the struggle

To lift my eyes, greet the dawn, say goodbye

To start again

Pausing,

Not so much in reflection

More in stupor

Stultified by the lives I've already led

The first day of summer boyhood summers one after another
The chaos of coming of age like the recoil of a rifle startling
The wilderness of insecurity swallowing time with no accounting
The seasons spent in vineyards rife with love and wine-soaked dreams
The lived-in years of great expectations and grim realities

Stupified I survived it all

Staring out this window at a world frozen for the moment

Not wishing my life away anymore or pining for the past

Willing but not ready to soldier on

Knowing the march of time will take me

Regardless

almost scandinavian

Cold Ghosts

The sky shimmers that certain blue above a field of snow
Three crows circle without a sound below a low slung sun
There then gone gusts of wind ski and surf whitecap drifts
Here inside a warm house the sudden icy draft of memory
Her winterlong apparitions persist to haunt his nordic heart
He suffers her cold ghosts in shivers stoic, almost scandinavian

memory boxes

More Reminders Than Momentos

rooting through the cramped attic spaces of my mind

filled with memory boxes i have carried with me,

finding a curled postcard here,

a wooden nickle keepsake there

to pocket for some almost poem

or just the warmth of recollection,

more reminders than mementos, that this life is more

than just children building snowmen in the rain

for per petterson

Out Stealing Horses

we could be out stealing horses,
but instead we harness our days
to a song for staying in

slow notes unfolding across endless open fields
outside these winter hung windows

inside safe and sound
we watch, we wait

eyes half closed
and dreaming
of july's symphony of heat and light

as we languish here
amidst december's children
holding fast to a lullaby
and the reins of rocking horses

inspired by the novel
'out stealing horses' by per petterson

from Azalea to Zinnia

Lasting Impressions

Press these flowers I picked for you

Between the pages of the book I have yet to write.

Let their bloom perfume pulp fictions

In place of long left rotting though novel ideas,

Buried like bulbs beneath the dead leaf prose of autumn.

Let their petals print an indelible description

Of a femme fatale looking through frosted windows

For a figure planting plots in the grey of winter gardens,

So come spring and the start of new chapters,

The forget-me-nots trapped between pages

Still waiting to be written, now long forgotten,

Will give way to new bouquets from loving hands

Of wildflowers waiting to be found in fields

Along with words from a book of promises for you

Authored over a lifetime of lasting impressions.

in orbit, around her

A Jealous Venus

gripping the moon,
leverage is everything
when climbing the stars

my one hand waving free,

for her a hoist
to break loose
from gravity

solar wind blowing through her hair
distant starlight catching her eyes

even an ever-expanding, bible black universe
cannot contain her heavenly beauty

a jealous venus spins away beyond our sight
seeing the sun has begun to revolve around my love

without buildings

Momentary Architectures

an underwater flower swaying beneath the wake

a long-dried leaf tumbling atop a snowdrift

the gathering storm clouds looming over treetops

the delicate romance
of momentary architectures
in which i often linger

photos by a.c. nagl

safehouse

An Armor Of Our Own

all harm ends here

safe beside
safe inside

pull the blankets close
beneath our chins
and hide another hundred years

all harm ends here

photo by a.c. nagl

A Sun Unhinged

the name of a person you once knew,
uttered,

more like a silhouette in a dimly lit room,

the light bulb going off overhead
becomes a sun unhinged,
spinning out of control
on a collision course
with your world
especially when

the name is followed by

a beat,
a breath,

a word like a sigh of blinding candescence,

cancer

, a luminaire illuminating dark corners
caching a collection of memories
covered in a thick dust, long forgotten
but one by one gaining a glow,
dotting the black space of dreams
like so many stars in a night sky,
falling like a cold chill in the absence of the sun

for Dave W.

For John McPhee

A World Away (Hermit In An Ancient Sea)

in these hills,
hidden from a world on fire,
i sit watching snow fall,
building walls around myself
with mcphee's geology

that says,
this used to be a great ancient sea,
which i believe,

cloistered here, a world away,
as a wave of flush from this red wine
washes over me, flooding this biology,
extinguishing the flames beyond these hills
even if only for this brief moment in time

living out loud

Sounding Off In A Vacuum

i threw a brick through a window,
it didn't make a sound,
but as you heard i'm still picking up the pieces

i threw a wrench into a situation,
it didn't make a sound,
but the silence that followed is almost deafening

i threw a rock inside a glass house,
it didn't make a sound,
but listen closely for the coming recriminations

like bringing a bull into a china shop,
these are the repercussions of sounding off in a vacuum

green grow the rushes grow

Green Rushes / Grey Ruins / Lush Landscapes

You threw me under the bus knowing we still had roads to travel,
Brown dirt off-the-beaten paths and broad blue highways spidering maps
Like veins coarsing beneath the skin covering a broken heart,
Left to lament the forever altered scenery surrounding us,
Green grown rushes turned to ghost grey ruins.

The blood black bruise of tire tracks across my back will fade
And I will pull myself to stand again on seemingly unsteady kildeer legs,
Brushing the dust of disillusionment from my sleeves,
Placing the crumple of a hat back upon my birdwing bandaged head,
Ready to walk this road alone, healing as miles become years,
Wounds becoming scars that time will forget but I will never
As I wander new lush landscapes alone without you.

it's no game

Second Chances

never recognizing the moments that will matter most

[a redlight run by a woman]

we put our faith in ouija boards, fate or fortune one letter at a time

[my brother in a coma, in intensive care]

like a thousand puzzle pieces that never fit to form a landscape

[by his bedside wanting just one word]

end up playing 52-pickup again and again with each others emotions

[on my knees praying]

a random spin on the board of Life where it's better to be lucky than good

[both of us, suddenly awake, decades later, a thousand miles apart]

an entire game of Scrabble where we both have only vowels

[still wanting just one word]

never recognizing the moments that might matter most

... not once, but twice

Lightning In A Bottle (As it Begins To Snow)

lightning over snow stretching across an open field,
strange days have found us, indeed,

and in their landscape the snow turn rain turn fog
beclouding what the coming months may hold

no crystal ball can say, but surely snows will return
to freeze us fast in place to the slow grey of december

until gypsy winds blow come march to stir
the bedouin spirit of our vagabond hearts

the lion to lamb a reminder of april days around the bend
and a new wandering spirit on the way

though the wanderlust of years sits still admiring this moment
where we have captured lightning in a bottle as it begins to snow

old man river

Like The River, Slowly

like the river,
in the dry of autumn,
I roll along

slowly
these
days

slow over the round of rocks beneath me,
shaped by years of swift and rush,
hardened in the harsh sun cycles of drought

not looking ahead or behind I've found
nor is this head lost in the clouds,
walking behind my own shadow for once,
leading me where I may follow

subtle and slow enough is this journey at last
to stop and step around the nest of an ovenbird

painting: Reflections of Autumn III by Connie Tom