Watching, Waiting

I can’t tell anymore

whether smog, fog,

or smoke sits at the edge

of the world this evening


I have many eyes to do my watching

and little detail to spare

for the monster

lurking in the corners

teeth bared, tail low


The sunset is behind me now

Where the night belongs to him,

Tomorrow is mean for me


(Hour 10)

Ace of Sprials

I’ve been inundated

with that self doubt and loathing

great tides of fear

indoctrinations of my youth


The ram assures

eyes steady and sure

the rain must come

so the garden will grow


(Hour 9)


so deceptive that

soft fire that burns

in the hearth, warm

between clutches of herbs

flowers and spices


when let out

beyond your boundaries

what damage she does

to those unsuspecting

(Hour 8)

180 Degree Horizon

The world must have started

in a land like Illinois

where the land is flat and modest

without obtrusions of outrageous color

or geographical interruptions of

the Greats like Vesuvius


(Hour 7)

The Definition of a Poem

You’ll forgive me if I appear to lack

the gravity expected of a

professional author

I’ll have you know I take my craft

as seriously as sin

And still despite my publications and certifications

for the countless ways I’ve been asked

“What is a poem?”

the best and truest answer

I’ve yet to muster is,


“Whatever the fuck you want it to be.”


(Hour 6)


The flash-bang panic

of the hour nearly missed,

lost in the nostalgia of

wearing down the W button

all to play at being a wolf

without even knowing

that I was learning.


How much in my brain has roots

in those young obsessions I cultivated

to escape that thing called trauma?


(Hour 5)

In the Garden

The rabbit finds another victim,

tender green and freshly planted,

so the flowers now must rearrange.

There’s no dirt in our ground,

nor luscious grass to speak of,

but I take mindful care in the

ladies I’ve chosen for the merry-go-garden.

Flashy zinnias and fleshy watercress,

slender poppies bobbing in the breeze.

A million shards of liquid diamond

glimmer from periwinkle to sapphire,

and all the crimson in between,

from handsome cornflowers up high to

happy clumps of alyssum watching down below.

We host wasps and bees, moths and butterflies,

and every now and then, a frog or lizard,

and the resident spiders are polite and cooperative.

In the garden, everyone is welcome.


(Hour 4)

After the Third Alarm

Does the dawn call so quickly?

Morning like a flashlight through the red

window, stuttering and shy

If only I could draw myself from the cave

of quiet silence

into the world begging, begging me to join


(Hour 3)


Our hearts like wildfire

This day so full of promise

Now just beginning


(Hour 2)

6 o’ clock

Morning whiskers with

paws thunder to the window.

Outside, the world shakes itself awake.

It’s hour of peeking sun and

waking song birds,

warm fur on the cheek

and a purr in the chest.


(Hour 1)