Behind the hedgerow

For #WerewolfWednesday, we’re treated a full moon, a lunar eclipse, and a meteor shower. Oh, and this werewolf poem!  What lurks behind the hedgerow? Crackling branches under feet As I sit upon the stone bench in the silver glow of the full moon, where my lover I did come to meet.   Whose labored breaths…

leaves of memory

if I could kiss my memories and toss them to the wind as crumbled leaves, my outstretched limbs would yearn so desperately as to sprout new memories as spring. the desperate red,   the shameful purple, the quivering orange cling to me against the cold. this autumn coat of my life—not always beautiful but nonetheless…


broken and stitched from many separate, now dead, pieces. the grotesquery you’ve made of me. we often               imagine much worse than reality. yet not in this instance. the stiches rub raw and red and infected yet hold. oozing between branches, sunlight mottles the damp soil and leaves. where we lie. we talk of movies….


a small fire burns within the cavity I once called my heart. the shadows cast by the flames — a memorial — each a sweet remembrance, a lost hope, a faded dream, dancing on the cave walls like figures in jubilation.

at this point

                  my regrets pierce the heavens like stars   my dreams litter the landscape, sparkling shattered glass in the beating sun. each day   the vultures of hope peck my bleached bones clean — at this point, life has failed expectation. yet for the gift of fire I would burn…

Parting Glances

What is a first glance? A way of saying goodbye. and a threshold enters as much as it leaves. contains as much as it rejects. we work at parting glances, splitting the differences of space and air, a carnival of words, exchanged for fleeting glimpses of a stranger and a desired kiss. caressing fingers that…

Late Season Pruning

Trellis of his beauty, she— A God, he created her in the image of— [woman, women: bits                         and pieces] She is his flower garden. He plants his roses,             he cultivates. Ivy climbs across her back, wrapping around             her sides in formal array. She sobs for his beauty. Irises upon irises, violet. She…

Glimpses of Angels

Her dress is snagged by briars her hair falling down She wears a ring of dandelions like a halo She says I see the bird song and hear time slipping by   In town they say she’s crazy I say I tend to agree   She frolics naked by the meadow chasing butterflies she dances…


the portal flickers blue light across the room. though you know better, you pass through, unconscious

delicate desperation

Spring pushes through the ground, away the images frozen in my mind. I try not to pin too much on such a delicate season, yet, Spring, you must save me.