Waves over the horizon

Sometimes swimmy fishy things

prevail within my head

splashing in humorous waters

they divide they grow they spread,

for whatever the curtail reason

they reach for higher plains

through valleys ever flowing

till there’s nothing but remain,

dance on little swimming things

keep the songs to ever play

let the flowing loving seas

ever open to fluid days.


Comfortable nights that ease into days

wonder me into the arms and the sway

to guide me everless into nowhere seen

with beauty here that’s far between,

to the tenders that shine so brightly

underneath forgotten ways

floating empty through the oceans

over every tear filled wave.

Climbing to see

September came in breezy waves

turning away the leaves

where many lead to follow

over breath in gentle heaves,

clouds return from days of mayhem

resting upon a restless sea

staring ever over tiny ships

rustling as many bees,

the fervor moves in gradients

over many wanting minds

reaching for their mountain tops

then closing in resign.

Best selling

Tarry tarry little weave

making for the coat

spinning idle never rest

always writing as a wrote,

over, under, all you go

making for life the everyday

rewriting designated memories

as the whittle of a play,

so rest at ease among the threads

babbling within their nooks

seas of words all falling short

and then call it simply; book.

Swollen skies

Such a lovely day to sea

drifting away the open fields

lost to this and everywhere

the cuts and what may heal,

but steady on sweet lovers

for the tides they come a sweeping

drowning out the child’s cry

with hearts that strain in reaching.


The silent silhouette sat within shady walls

staring out from the clamoring of portraits

eyes that followed my every move

across the barren floor over creaky footing,

brooding breath over moments harbored

each image a mirage of memories

dividing my mind into dry bitter bits,

mulling rain over drops and sunny hues

till the night has gone its way

and the dawn revels its bluesy pales

touching over shady walls with silhouettes.

My flesh is dirt

I have never written as a page

or spoken as a word

expression is not elucidation;

and I sit among its branches.

Sometimes the world is flat

I’m rolling off its roundness

water splashing over the edge;

while mountains melt to the bottom.

Poetry is a moment lost

where everyone tries to follow

a river only passed through once;

many times over again.