Category Archives: poetry


Early, and my thoughts are not soft on waking,
All the weight of anger and despair already
Here with me.

Maybe, I should stop at the park on Saturday morning,
Sit in the swings as the sun rises, take comfort from what
Seemed like a wonderous world.

I sit in the parking lot at work, listening to a sad song,
Love unrequited, and try to her tender voices call back
Even a sweet sadness.



Sleeping in the fields outside Domremy-La-Pucelle.

I watch the stars above, spin and dance, try to heal.

She walked here, long ago, in her girlhood prelude.

A faithful child, pious and bright; God, angels wooed.


The stars above, so ancient and faraway, still like then.

I look at the stars she saw, lay in her shepherdess glen.

I am still touched by her grace through time, in this place.

But I will never see her in her pride, never touch her face.


I am a broken pilgrim; can I be used, can I be strong, brave?

Will there be even one hurting soul that my love would save?

Am I good enough to be her admirer, to follow her ever higher?

Am I a good man, even if rough and hewn, like her man La Hire?


Ghosts haunt open fields, this town where she was born and grew.

Far away from this forests and friends was God waiting to take you.

I watch those stars who saw and looked after you, in that long past time.

Will I be a lost lamb you find in the night, as I call out with this tender rhyme?



Saint Rachel

She rode the second hand, silver and red BMX bike through the green and wooded park.

Stopping by a pawnshop, after walking and wandering, she bought with her little money.

She rode it, her wild and unkempt hair blowing in veils and blinds, until well after dark.

She hid among the trees, not a prophet or full of grace, earing locusts and the wild honey.


She felt she needed to stay close to the green and wild life, stay in this pocket of growing.

The trees and grass pruned and shaped, but still alive and still like the world she knew.

Deep and dark forests and wide open meadows, the winds the dandelions were sowing.

Swallowed up by God’s upon mouth, the clouds his verdant tongue in skies so very blue.


There was a Garden of Martyrs, and the Saint Rachel had her coat of arms born there.

She dreamed of Saint Rachel, now and again, but no longer held her hand, lost all faith.

Faith wasn’t the sanctuary she was promised, the friends not noble, so she fell to despair.

Saint Rachel was an icon in her wallet, no whispers came now, no touch, Holy Wraith.


Yet, as summer was well and truly arrived, she rode out into the dismal city, to fight.

Her battered and reliable bike, her heart of spells, her true voice thin as onion paper.

Saint Rachel wept in the garden, and Judas grew impatient for War, knuckles white.

She rode onto those streets, swarming locusts, abandoned honey, on a moral caper.

Friday Night, Spring

Friday night, spring is here. Warm again, after a bitter winter.

We eat our meal together, talk and laugh, feel alive.

Try not to think of what we saw on the news.


Hand in hand in the picture show. Stealing kisses.

A romance stronger than all the darkness in the world

unfolds before us onscreen. Are we strong enough?


Walking to the subway station, we look to the sky.

It’s open, without stars. And we see nothing flying through.

The world’s on the edge of the end again. What can we do?


The end of the night, time to go home, catch our trains back.

One last kiss. One last moment for love. The world may burn.

We say “I love you.” We say it for real. The world may burn.


Mom and dad glued to the TV. Still on the brink. Still fucked.

Stupid dickheads playing chicken with the world. What can I do?

My lips still hum with that kiss. Love still fills my heart.


The world may burn.

Siren In Dirty Water

The street is empty. The streetlamps’ light is sickly, piss yellow.

I walk, more at ease than in the people packed daylight, noise.

I’m walking to Henley St. Bridge, past the stone church, past light.


It’s spring, but the nights are already becoming summer hot again.

The air is still and stewing, thick with the moisture of a coming storm.

The bright colored lights on the bridge offer no comfort, no real glow.


I stand on the middle of the bridge, looking down to the city below.

Lights at night are deceptive in their golden beauty, soft glow halos.

But it’s a lie, an ugly city with no love or hope or any place to go.


The air is choking and harsh, a bare wind, rains will maybe come.

The fall to the water might be enough, to leave this rotten place forever.

There is a siren in dirty water, my last lover true, calling me down to her.


A long stretch of highway, dead of night, through empty desert.

I listen to the stories of ghosts, and alien hybrid women

who know what revelation is to come,

about the days ending and the whole sorry business of extinction.


Big almond eyes, with contacts to cover all the black with white, blue.

The sharp faces and the dedicated glamour of a silent prophetess.

Owls perch on their hands, with eyes of the dead, and cowardly mice

held in their beaks, the sacrifices for a working of fame.


The road is endless, and if this rig breaks, if at all falters,

I’ll have no way home or out of purgatory before rapture comes.

A girl in Barstow is hungry for my eyes, and tendrils of my bones.

A glamourous girl, sharp faced, with the apocalypse written in her palm/

Starry Eyed Hawk

A young woman, maybe nineteen, with long honeyed hair, and dark eyes,

stands at the edge of the field, out towards the North Carolina border, has a

large and starry eyed hawk, perched on a leather glove on her left arm.


The hawk is blind, but hears whispers of spirits, sees their outlines against

the grey, dark sky. The sun is kept away so the young woman can heal, heal

of the barbarisms of the light.


The young woman, with her alien hybrid beauty and dark eyes that see

the apocalypses that will come when father comes down from the sky,

the end and the revelation of our miniscule meaning.


Starry eyed hawk calls out, the sickly song, the soft song, the song of love.

The young woman coos at him and he flies into that dark sky, to bring back

the prey of thuggish angels.


And the young woman stands there, yellow coat, blue jeans, green wellies,

as sinister and beautiful as any truly divine thing, the flesh of sacred wrath,

the flesh of the hardness of grace.


She opens her mouth, calling down those thuggish angels so eager for war,

so eager to destroy every pure hearted sinner and saint of infernal devotion,

everyone not god’s child and full of hate.


And the starry eyed falcon, eyes blue orbs shot through with white specks,

that captured the ones who knew that heaven was just a citadel of the dead,

and keeps them warm forever.


And the day grows darker and colder, and the forests where Pan, in lust and fear,

is the wildness of the mind not broken, in all it’s grace and fury and innate violence,

in all the days we were young.

Wolves Howl

She sits by the campfire, in the open field ringed by a dark forest.

Navy blue hoodie, hood up, comfy and loose pants, worn out boots.

She looks into the fire, discerning the light and sparks as a sacred tongue.


The war is over. All was lost. She wants only the spirits of the wild.

The wolves have turned their backs, taken back all that they become for us.

They howl and might come for her in the night. She loves them if they are wild.


Her hands are calloused, and they shake. The palms are hot by the flames.

At night, she dreams of the places Man never adored or held sacred to it’s heart.

Her eyes see in the flames, the hunger that devours all that is given.


The wolves howl. They are getting nearer through the dark forest.

All against all, in the night and the cold beneath the warring stars.

The flames keep her warm. The flames are light. It will burn out.


Still and Cold

The sea. The crashing waves. Salt air stinging her nose. Melding water and sky.

A breeze tussles her hair beneath the hood of her navy blue sweat shirt.

Tears flow from her eyes. Her face is still and cold.


The sea. The end of the journey home. The end of all days.

Her bare feet sinking in the moist sand. She shivers, but speaks not at all.

The sea will take her in again. She is not whole in this world. Mother welcomes her child.


She strips to her bare skin. Time and tide will carry her clothes away, all signs of her.

She walks towards those deep and terrible waters. Those waters that bore all.

Mother is silent, but speaks in loss and the discarded rains.


Shock of the cold water, she finally gasps and cries, the price of every rebirth in flesh.

She’s carried under, navy blue again, and it all come back to her again.

She is home. Home is the depths and starless nights.


Home is the cold.

Spiral Arms

In the forest, still shivering in her navy blue hoodie, hood up.

In the forest, Andromeda swallowing the sky, bright in the scattering.

In the forest, she carries the sun in her hand, and the day she was born.


This night is a moment, torn loose and the truest name of a disavowed god.

A kiss, simple and soft, once made her weightless and immortal, beyond life.

An evening that fell into disrepair, as she wore it threadbare with recall.


In the forest, there are no others, only ghosts and the phantoms of her demons.

In the forest, she is free from holy men whose write draws blood, and infects it.

In the forest, Andromeda will lift her in it’s dissipating spiral arms, take her home.


A spirit unclean and holy in that, the trees bold and haughty, as branches snag light.

The navy blue hoodie is armor against the cold of heaven’s warmth, it’s bitter rebuke.

Fringes of her fine hair might become feathers on the ghosts who haunt the fountains.


In the forest, a kingdom lasts a day but burns forever, and remnants make a sighing smile.

In the forest, a memory of that precious girl who touched her face, is near again.

In the forest, Andromeda picks her up, and in it’s death raises her up to her true kin.