• Poetry & Other Writing

    Sixty

    My poem, Sixty, went live this week on “More Truly, More Strange, an Anthology of Poetry In Augmented Reality”. It’s a Snapchat-enabled project. Link, here. Here’s a written version: Sixty Standing in mist that autumn evening, waiting to go,  suddenly sixty snow geese overhead, a vast hushed company,  swirling clouds together. Muted wingbeats thrumming,  potent as a divination,  I could not leave them,  could not move as their wings brushed winds  upon my upturned face.   photograph: Snow Geese Flying by Ken Archer | Art.com

  • Poetry & Other Writing

    I’m in “The 64 Best Poets of 2018”

    Two of my poems were chosen for inclusion in Black Mountain Press’ “The 64 Best Poets of 2018” international collection. I owe a profound debt of gratitude to poet Bruce Beasley for working with me on these poems, part of a manuscript that is currently out to publishers. Solicitation Come now. Pull me into you as wind lures leaves into a vortex, reeling. My skin remembers fingers trailing and the touch of someone’s tongue. If you push your breath across my wrists, I’ll feel your most sacrificial secrets brush me. Betrayal and devotion, both. I will allow your breathing message to be borne to me the way a tiger carries…

  • Poetry & Other Writing

    The Days Pass, Heated

    I water wilting plants, consider how the seasons tilt in this new age we’ve made, unroll the hose, watch insects rushing to wet pools. I consider my back fence, the possums, squirrels, and feral cats, the raucous crows who use it, running through dense maple leaves. I consider thirst and buy a water fountain for them;it’s said in 30 years there will be food and water riots. My hands are scented with the urgent hopes of new-planted herbs.

  • Poetry & Other Writing

    Pablo Neruda

    The days aren’t discarded or collected, they are beesthat burned with sweetness or maddenedthe sting: the struggle continues,the journeys go and come between honey and pain.No, the net of years doesn’t unweave: there is no net.They don’t fall drop by drop from a river: there is no river.Sleep doesn’t divide life into halves,or action, or silence, or honor;life is like a stone, a single motion,a lonesome bonfire reflected on the leaves,an arrow, only one, slow or swift, a metalthat climbs or descends burning in your bones.

  • Poetry & Other Writing

    As Sewing is to Torn

    As Sewing is to Torn – Adrienne Asher We mend the world, our every choice a stitch in the rough bark of life. Our hopes embroider our beginnings, and look—our hands are opening into birds within some lyric tree of sound. This is all meant for worship—our beating hearts and shouted silences leaf out into a forest filled with restoration for us all.   Photo: Hannah Streefkerk’s installation at Land Art Biënnale 2010 – Valkenswaard, Netherlands