Published in Cattails - May 2014

  • last cicada . . .
    the silence crackles
    around it

     

  • lenten retreat . . .
    a sparrow cocks its head
    into silence

     

  •  
    Just forty-five years ago today my best friend's body was found hanging from a wooden beam in the family barn.
     
    Paul was an innovative artist who, at eighteen years of age, began a journey along a road to his own Damascus. I can still recall the images he created with his masterful understanding of chiaroscuro; images that he destroyed on his last day.
     
    By that time his increasingly exclusive diet of speed pills had transformed his self-perceived identity to be that of the real and fully evolved John Lennon.
     
     
    advent light . . .
    a pendulum of shadows
    creaks through me
     
     
  • this morning
    the open window
    of her eyes . . .
    I emerge from darkness
    with gold-flecked wings

    cattails - May 2014