Wild Thing




Pardon me,

That I may gaze upon you,

Your figure twisted into a Peaceful Warrior,

Hips stacked, body balanced, arms aligned, head high,

Staring into the face of the universe without fear,

The sunlight dappled across your skin like waves

Lapping upon the shore of my dreams,

Like a heat map that leads my eyes to yours,

Like a road flare illuminating the shadows of your soul,

And in the half light, the moment stretches, and,

Brought to the breaking point,

Sings one last warbling note on its golden lyre,

Then shatters.


More Faith than Flesh



I toss my troubles

Down the wishing well,

Watch them until they melt into the inky black,

Bid them farewell, if only for the night,

And let myself wander the alpine forests of my youth,

Where the wax seal of time

Is still warm from the pouring,

And the swaying, golden fields of life

Have only just begun to be harvested,

Where the air is redolent with the heady scent of loam

Mixed with distant traces of sea foam;

And if a tree falls in this forest,

It won’t make a sound,

So unburdened am I

That I am more faith than flesh.

eschatology: a poem



(Eschatology: Noun. The theological study of the fate of the world.)


I am the rain that falls,

I am the wind
That wearies the wanderer.

I am the silence
That befalls all sound.




I can think of no better metaphor

Than the glorifying sun

Yielding to the inkwell of the night

At the end of everything;

Time – such a cruel mistress –

Finally running out,

The sand in the hourglass

Surrendering the last of itself

At the journey’s end;

And, at long last, it was over.

The Voyage



Distant and void,

Frigid and alone,

Far from where they started,

Yet no closer to where they’re meant to be,

Are two lonely little spacecraft

Tasked with filling the silent spaces between the stars

With the riotous song of the human dream,

Themselves dreaming of an ending,

A point in space and time

When they can rest,

And where they can find themselves spinning

Around some distant star unlike our own

On a collision course,

A billion years from now,

When humanity is but a ghost,

Echoing, lonely and lost,

Around the epicenter of a stage called Earth,

On which their song was sung,

Upon which their battles were lost and won,

From whose green and blue depths

 They launched two small voyagers

Just to say,

“We were here.”

The Elements



The mountains pass

With the most stillness,

But the trees, they are

Such transient passersby,

Such fleeting parts of our lives,

Fleeing so quickly from view,

As if running on fleet-footed feet,

From some flagrant forest fire,

Far from here, and smokeless, too,

Cold, by now, ashes at most,

And scattered ones at that;

And of the human element?

The houses, the streets?

They, too, pass with rapidity,

Save they are not running, but rather

Are static, yet not unchanging –

Flaring and fading, then falling

Into the complete and utter abandon

Of ruination.

The Farmer Who Tugs at His Shoots



I can relate

To the farmer who tugs at his shoots –

You know the one –

He’s always out there in the lengthening shadows of dusk,

Pulling up his corn and his wheat

A handful of weeks after the planting season,

He tugs and he tugs,

Trying his level best

To turn the tide of time in his favor,

Dreaming of an early harvest,

And all the blueberry wine he’ll be drinking

As he watches the more patient, prudent farmers begin to toil at their fields

Just as he is finishing up for the season.

He pulls and he pulls,


To outrun the clock,

As if only by outdoing himself, he can make those fearsome shadows

Shrink back into their noon-day stations,

The sun hovering at its zenith,

Not inching forth in her orbit,

But rather bending to his wills,

Never moving,

Just shining there, everlasting.


Yes, I can relate to the farmer

Who tugs at his shoots –

You know the one –

He does not see

That his crops will not grow

In such light,

That they would wither and die in the heat at the height of the twelfth hour;

Nor does he see that the hands uprooting the fruits he has sown are his own,

Not until he is in the thick of the waste and the rot,

The dying plants returning to a more worthy steward

As Earthward-bound they go;

He does not know

That there are other things to see,

That between the sowing and the reaping,

There are rewards

For the one who watches,

For the one who waits.


Yes, indeed;

I can relate.