I watch through the window
as we race down the runway,
and our plane’s shadow stays
coupled until the wheels
disengage. We ascend
and I see the full shadow
skim across a small lake,
fade over a field, and vanish.
I wonder if I’ll ever elude
the shadow following me.
elements of loss
scatter throughout
the evening sky,
yet fading stars
pervade our sight.
something shattered
now refurbished
by waves and beams
from another time,
illuminating
our dismal dark.
He is stuck again
between the spaces
of past and future,
moving along invisible
lines, bound to now
until it ends. How grim
an existence if not for dark
and light places revealing
the colors of grace sparkling
like the sun upon a dancing sea.
*From Awaiting the Images
i pulled up behind the light blue bmw
glimmering in the early morning
from its wash and fresh coat of wax
the license plate read U4EA
if consumerism is the climax
then slash my tires and steal my keys
until numbness falls from my bones
a boy takes refuge
in the silent woods of winter,
trading the noise inside
for the soft crackle of leaves
that mark each step to the frozen
lake below. standing above
the icy water’s edge
he spends hours lofting stones
towards the sky, waiting
and watching each one,
like words, poke a perfect hole
through the ice and softly
sink into the startled stillness.
From Awaiting the Images
stone’s throw first appeared in Borderlands: Texas Poetry Review, Number 42, 2015
for KW
the words hit hard as stones
take up your cross and follow
where bones whiten under
a relentless sun and dissipate
to dust in the wilderness
i fasten a casket to my back
crawl down the road still
bruised by a barrage of love
rain streaks across the stained glass,
and lightning reveals the prayers
of pious saints preserved in stone.
some churches rebuilt after bombs
came crashing, crushing foundations
built by men. still the walls climb
like fingers grasping for the wind,
and the haunting they seek to cage
slips past unnoticed like a ghost.
From Awaiting the Images
I found you near the river’s
edge after the soldiers left.
Your child breathed softly
in your arms, eyes glowing
with wonder. You were asleep
to this world, wide awake
somewhere else. A shade
by our sides, perhaps,
or galaxies beyond our sight.
I whispered a word and walked
away, and the autumn light
flickered in your child’s hair
like flecks of gold as I carried
him across the fading horizon.
This is the first poem of mine ever published by a journal. It was published by Offerings in its 4th Quarter 2000 issue. I have no idea whether the journal still exists, but I am thankful that it encouraged me to keep writing, as I encourage you to do the same.
High Tide
He is too far away from the sea
to notice the sun dance on water.
He will never hear waves
pound against sand.
Too far away to play with children;
to believe sand castles
will never fall, then rebuild
when they do.
Instead he is fifty stories above
ground, grinding towards
a muddled dream as the first
floor fills with water.
the machine believes money
is love. honor and prestige
parade through the town
with cash clenched tightly
in their hands. they build
monuments to honor sport
while souls are crushed
under the clamor of their
self-congratulatory speech.
* From Awaiting the Images
Awaiting the Images 