Night Song

When still is call condensed
on radioblackened warm
sky ferry fogs in fiery cones
parting tones to city shacks,
your chrysalis across the bed,
your throat and heart in night’s intrusive head.
across the lattice frost, I listen
lost for breathing whence;
the frogs come peeping thence.


We’re almost to the town, I Know,

We’re almost to the town I know,

we’ll shiver up a slip of wind
coats pulling, following hush
through the afternoon being
idle, with the walk of cymbals
brushed like spruce and vacant bone.
Following, the yellowed pine
will part like perennial glass.

Part like calcium trails worn red:
into gold mosaics grown a womb
of buildings and bulbs,
Part like the glass of noise
parting vapour trails in wide corners
thinning; the gate of towns
and bannerets read panlingua,
residing in residual crossroads
circling an empty center.

Is it a beautiful “it is?”

Do I answer (yes I do),
as children impossibly
more older-complex
design in rhyming sign
belie their (time they do)

flowers furled
inward, unwind
curled colors,
the ocean of yardstick
boils bleeding through;

why do petal mind ages
expecting “is it a child’s I can?”
catch the abacus of eyes,
a cough and a surmise
to value lengths of I grow and do?

The Living

In lieu of a poem today, I have decided to go on an explicative roving, if you’ll pardon the thinly veiled conceit. Writing often elucidates, as any writers reading this will tell you, many frailties and shortcomings in the psyche and development of the author. This is partially why writing is seen as a cathartic craft; it allows you a pristine reflection on what the author thought was correct in form, in ideals, and in presentation. Often, this sort of reflection is painful, particularly without the epaulets of achievement to pin up self-esteem and resolve.

I am clearly no different, or I wouldn’t have set on the task to write this article. So-titled “The Living,” I would like to take a moment to celebrate the living art of poetry, which is a two-fold sentiment. Foremost, it is famously argued that the fashion of words changes with history, and what seems à la mode and evocative today will someday come across passé. Academics tend toward discussion on the transience of meaning. What is not spoken, perhaps because it is so dutifully obvious, is that a poem changes during its protogenesis, and before it matures it may take on several disparate forms, distinct in temperament, in color and pitch. Sometimes — most of the time — it never gets to where it needs to be; the gardener tends to the newest flowers, and soon enough the creations of our old efforts resemble weeds beside the glitz of the new.

I intend to mitigate this entropy within The Sometimes Song. As a living gallery, you will find surfacing a series of portraits for each major poem. As they grow, the result will be a scrap book of photographs, school photos depicting the ageing of my children. Some will become scholars, some will become soldiers. Others will wander the Earth looking for home, and others still will snuff their own flames. It was either this or insidiously edit the poems as my fickle nature permits, but there is enough of that off the page by our editor, time.

This is for both of us. For you, the reader, I proffer two things: poetry and a poem; for me, I receive a pleasant excuse for the inadequacies of my retrospection. Good day.

the dreamcatcher

eye through
an inkwell to map folds

it defines(
a web of clocks,

a pulse of iterating
lines, alignments ticking

through a locksmith: spider
and supine, a spinal

hammering through to shake
the ever chime)til morning

a window shining string,
sting and pantomime.

Coeur du Coppice

My tears have been my meat day and night,
while they continually say unto me, Where is thy God?”
Ps 42:3 KJV

Where all is beautiful and made of fog,
silverweed runners bog through snow like peat,
and fruit too cold to eat hang like dew from gems
over the river. Stems of dragonflies pass through vapor

Shattering to paper blades of words in frosty grass,
waking Sunday mass of mosquito capillary glades
as a deer combs moss, fixed on gilded wings
as it slips into meniscus veins promised by the river.

Carry home, tightweave brain, through the books of cray
buried in brooks of burning sand, the hungry runaway
who – crying stained – forgets he left his Father’s land.
“Is home the chapter of green hills waving goodbye

like a fan of leaves in the breeze remains
without the hope to live again – or was it hello
to all the brook bones bending in the downstream glaze –
Ah, the colors of a prism are a maze!” Wrapped in vinegar and webs,

the daily paper spreads a new malaise each rising sigh of flame,
the forefront of a tide, a cast of sick and dead
pick scabs from off their heads and stamp with dye
your dampened eye, your named darkened by a book of names.

postcard thoughts, poetry, and essays