Serial Poetry
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tell the physician
tell the physicianwho steps back to makeplace for the birthof another wintertell him the birth of the winter’s thaw on the childbed is the birth of thewinter’s freeze on the deathbed Continue reading
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tell her the exit
tell her the exitfrom eden was theentrance into winter Continue reading
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november came
november camecame when the last light of october glimmered to the bottom of the westthen went out fellover the appearance of the edgenovember camefilled the one roomedhusband who sleptthe nights on the bed beside herit filled him with a chill that shivered perimetersfilled him withbrittle as the thinice over puddlesthe bedsheet between themit never meltedit Continue reading
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grandmother knows
grandmother knowshow the picker of plums becomes the orchardoh when the snowmelt was inside her for yearsand in him for years the melted snow floodedthe creeks in his veinsflooded the swollen streams in his arteriesoh she watched him go by the lane from the villageinto bloom among the plum treesand in the icicles that dripped Continue reading
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from the mantel where the ticking measures
from the mantel where the ticking measuresthe silence of right nowthis solitude will be measuredwith the clanging of the pendulum on the quarterhour on the half on the hour in synchronicityin perfect harmony with the church bellfrom the steeple in the graveyard’s nearby townwhich chimes the measure of a gopher’slife under a tombstone Continue reading
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ask grandmother
ask grandmotherif she remembers the fields that livedseasoned with stubble before they wereseasoned with the plowthen seasoned with seedthe fields that were still wet with mud out of the womb of winternewborn when the foal was in her kneesand the lamb was in her limbsthe fields that lived inside heras she seeded the commonand the Continue reading
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i labour with the season in my spirit
Good morning: I thought I’d share a bit of the evolution of a poem this morning. In the process of drafting this up, I googled images of Early Modern European peasant women: This poem is the composite sketch of those women. The image that’s linked provide the eyes that are translated from the visual to Continue reading
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two days to the south
two days to the southamong the crops in the season of the sicklethere are children in the age of sproutingtheir parents mature into the flowering of their summerstheir grandmotherthe white threads of her hair drift backthe stitched hem of her coif wraps a pear frozen browned bruise splotchedwrinkled the linen frames her face Continue reading
About Me
I have a day.
Jake's Flea Market 