Shades of Lavender – A Poem from the Archives


Shades of Lavender

Fleet of white sailing ships
rest in the harbor
under cliffs of green falling grass.
The borders of earth and sky
stretch into impossible lengths
of space
and time.
Shift what is possible into shades
of lavender,
flowers stream across fields painted
in blue.

Waking dreams course into illusions
of reality
as the ocean cycles into raindrops
and rivers.
Contemplate a moment a rope,
a net,
gripping the wood planks
of the pier
built on sea by land.

Where did we go
nights of snow
drifting away
molds of clay?
Four feet tap
by moon and stream
drifting in cross
crafty determent
of lives spent
together and apart.


Another entry and exploration into old poems I wrote years ago. This has been changed some from how it was originally written, mostly to clean up and make the idea come through  little clearer. I think, however, I kept the spirit of the original in tact, which is my main focus in revisiting and revising these writings.



So Pass The Mariposa – A Poem


So Pass The Mariposa

The violets began to die the moment
the window glass was shattered.
An occurrence Marla could only interpret
to be a premonition.

In her youth she heard tell
(and Oscar can vouch for her on this)
how in the estuaries the birds
were giving birth
to living babies.
Human babies no larger than an egg
and with wings
instead of arms.
An old charlatan,
who was an uncle on her mother’s side,
said he even had one
when he overheard her talk about them
one day
to her friends.
He had it in a jar in his house.
But Marla was too quick-tempered
to believe him,
and trusted in this matter only the testimony
of other children.

“I could always place my faith in the violets,”
she said to Oscar.
It was a double pane window,
and only one of them had broken.
Its remains littered the grass.
“They were one of the few things
in my life
I could believe in.”

Oscar fell in love with her
(perhaps unfairly)
when they were children and he spied on her
in their father’s greenhouse
through the wrapping green of the tomato plants.
She wore a dress of earth tone pastels.
The morning was young and it shed its light
in a swirling panorama
of muted violins and fragrant
hot-house roses.

“We can name them The Mariposa,” Marla suggested.

“Why? They are nothing like butterflies.
More like mutant cherubs.”

“No, they are The Mariposa.”

Through the years
Oscar had stayed at Marla’s side
and had been ever vigilant
in his care for her.
From the wild days of abandon
as she mastered her art,
and enduring the complex violence
that epitomized her marriages.
Lasting as the house they shared
for all their years,
their parent’s house which once
was filled with life and hope,
collapsed under the loneliness
of time.
Even during the time when the flowers fell
from a clouded sky in June
and exploded.
Leaving only rubble, cinder and blood
in the town center
where the elderly would once gather to gossip
over hot black coffee,
and her children exchanged their hearts
with their lovers
in secret sealed envelopes
in the brightness of their passion.

“They have left now. The Mariposa.
They would drink the nectar from the violets
in the early hours,
but with the flowers dead
so too
pass The Mariposa.”

And Oscar stroked Marla’s hand
to comfort her as
she sat there in the stuffy confines
of the greenhouse
looking at the canvas that was
propped on her easel,
studying the painting she was working on
awash in hushed, bashful colors
for answers to riddles she knew she would never
and that he, of course,
found lovely beyond words.

Eyes Open – A Poem


Eyes Open

Eyes open
in a stairwell.
Side rail provides
perfect support.

How many steps was it?

I told you not to make a sound.
“Don’t make a fucking sound!”
is what I said.

And now I hear him. We both do.

What happened to Peter?

The air turns violent and pink.
The same color as Purgatory.

Mother fucker. Motherfucker motherfucker.

Peter bled.
He’s downstairs. He’s gone.
He’s gone.

Outside we acted coy and cool.
We were caught in a hallucination.
We were fish in the lake.
But all we did was violate
our only salvation.

In the brittle tree tops:
Count me!
Catch me!
a water wheel turning
under a pedestrian moon.

But what if it’s Peter?

The smell becomes overbearing
and you choke and vomit.

I beg you to be quiet.

But what if it’s Peter?

It’s not.

The walls are translucent
and I see that I am on the border
at the edge of the world
where the sun pirouettes on the horizon
and the violent antithesis of ourselves
is revealed.

But what if…

Peter was down there.
He was with us.
And I remember how he bled,
with that tranced reflection
of his eyes
becoming red and holy
as we turned invisible.
And then he was gone.

Totalitarianism – A Poem



mirror miscommunication

I tie my shoes
my knuckles scarred
fingers shaking

“It’s totalitarianism.”

totalitarian muse
washed up on the banks
flood waters recede

“Angel, angel, it will be okay.”

“Bring it to me.
I want to see its eyes.”


“Bring it to me.”

in a green dress with a summer trim
a bloody mary grin

my coat feels heavy
photograph of the afterlife
in one pocket
a lighter in the other

I put it on
open the door
there is a light rain
steam over the asphalt swirls
around a mother
two destitute children
a single umbrella

“No, never mind. Don’t. Never mind
I don’t want it. Don’t.”

you shut the door
my eyes are dry
I rub them


I kiss your forehead
stroke your hair
you kiss my lips

“Please. Just don’t.”

passion portioned
from a barrel filled with August flowers
peach colored dreams
blend into the sunlight of a new day


in a red tank top
and running shorts
run your fingers up my back

“Let’s go angel. Let’s go to a café.
Grab some coffee.”

my head is like a lawnmower
words are making me sick
a desperate need for water
your shadow is painted on the wall
I draw you close to me

“I’m injured. Can you feel it?”

“I can.”

“Injured, cracked. And I’m only able
to watch my self seep out
through those cracks.
It is totalitarianism. It is.
Isn’t it?”

“Yes. It is, but
let’s go now. Get dressed angel.
Let’s go.”

Park of Roses – Photography


Another week, another Sunday at a local park. This time at the Park of Roses, though most of the pictures don’t have any roses in them. They were not really all in bloom, but there were some that were. I really wanted to take a photo of the grounds, but one thing led to another, and I didn’t make it to a place that would have provided a good shot.  Anyway, I am not meaning to have weekly park photography as any kind of regular segment on this blog, but it has just happened that way, and it’s also been fun posting them.

Kingfisher – A Poem



I am in the west
looking west.
Into heresy my eastern shadow
weathered into white sand.

There, on a thin ribbon of land above the waves,
on the treeless hills
overlooking the barren shore,
the sea made us kings.
I became the Kingfisher. I took its name.
Its title.
And you were christened the Osprey. You soared
in high paths of moon lit stars
while I flew low
in an afternoon sun that broke
across the water.

But no matter.

In, Essa, in. Throw it in.
Another and another.
Throw all of it in.
Your back is to me and I watch it tremble.
Let’s leave what remains
for the tides to take.
Hear as the waves lap
breathless along the beach.