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Poetry Collection

The Loon's Cry

Do you remember that afternoon?

My tree-sap sticky hands on kneecaps,

watching bees dance between gaps 

of flower pot blooms. 

 

You, in the garden like so often,

shirt stained green and gold by pollen,

picking sunshine briefly captured in strawberry form.

 

The ground was dry and cracked. 

You said the loon would answer back 

when thirsty earth supplicated for a sip.

Just then, the tan grass sighed 

and the summer swelter softened 

as swollen clouds rolled over August sun.

 

And with a water pail in your wrinkled hand,

almost like you had it planned, 

you looked towards the lake and said,

“Now, listen...”

 

With arrested breath and arms goose-fleshed,

a song of ghostly magic filled the air.

You held me closely as the sky spilled over,

bathed by both warm rain and your care. 

Thistle-tickled toes 

and raindrop-trickled nose.

Lost in the moment that we shared…

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I'd Been Hiking for an Hour

when my body asked to rest. 

A small clearing in the woods called my name.

The moss, sunlit and soft.

The trees, serving shelter.

A secluded setting was saturated 

by the scent of sweet soil and cedar.

 

I lay my head on a living pillow of greenery,  

organic machinery of budding leaves and fronds unfurling. 

Looking up at the gentle swaying of evergreen boughs, 

I noticed how much those elder giants moved. 

A deep sigh escaped my lips as eyelids closed;  

my body bathed by a peace I’ve never known. 

 

And with racing, 

roaring mind now resting,

I could finally feel,

the symphony,

a healing harmony weaving 

throughout every fragment of creation. 

With eyes sealed shut, 

a lattice of golden threads emerged,

strands connecting me 

with every life that has occurred. 

 

And like a network of mycelium links

and a sapling with the forest, 

I too am interwoven with the world.

Unbroken in this moment, 

the borders of my being blur;

uncertain is the boundary 

where I begin and end. 

 

I am...

Every decomposing carcass 

and misguided act of darkness. 

I am...

Every huckleberry bloom 

and fragile fetus in a womb. 

I am...

Sorrow’s suffocating grip.

A gentle kiss on lover’s lips. 

I am…

 

I am..

 

I am.

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Leap of Faith

 

I see you, 

running for your life. 

The hungry wolf-pack’s breath on your back; 

A roaring river of grey fur and white fangs 

threatens to pull you under. 

 

You’re just a little bit quicker.

 

The end of this path’s fast approaching,

but when you’re being chased by monsters, 

the cliff-edge appears like a dear friend,

an end to these gnawing fears. 

 

Leaping into the unknown,

your heart is unsure how hard 

this fall will be. 

 

But, there I wait,  

on the other side         of this divide, 

 

ready to catch you with soft arms

of meadow grass and wildflowers.   

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Impermanence

Inhale
Mind or matter,

Paradise or peril,

Everything dissolves and fades in time.

Relationships that fill your heart,

Misery that tears apart,

A wave of clouds in endless, open sky.

Notice how this moment 

Ends as soon as it begins.

Nothing can evade

Constant change

Exhale

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Heron Ambitions

It was sometime in high school when the seed was sown in topsoil. A seed that took hold in the field of my mind, roots creeping deeper and deeper, gripping bare bedrock with sharp, crooked teeth. It was a belief that told me my worth as a person was thoroughly tangled and tied to how busy I am and what I achieve. 

 

Regrettably, as I frantically fly from one reddish-orange bloom to the next, I forget I should taste what I’m drinking; I’m thinking this nectar’s supposed to be sweet. I am drunk on momentum and numb is my pin-needle tongue. 

 

Life feels diminished; 

my turn is not finished. 

I’m convinced it’s a zero-sum game. 

Second-guessing decisions, my moves are like hairpins but…

 

I have heron ambitions. 

 

Ideally, one day, I’ll be standing serenely surrounded by minnows and mollusks below. 

A regal example of blueish-grey grace, chasing reddish-orange blooms I’ll forgo. But for now, I fervently flap weary wings to maintain a nodding head raised above freezing water. 

 

How can I stop when they’re all working harder than me? 

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The Assumption

His mind is a teeming forest. 

Its plants, dense and green. 

Its creatures, present but unseen. 

 

In fact, everything 

found within it 

is thought. 

 

But there he stands, amidst it all, 

convinced he caused the chickadees’ call, 

believing he made the fir trees grow tall,

assuming he formed the waterfall.