come sit beneath my branches and read to me from dead poets for I am old all texture and symmetry a conspiracy of cocoons
Early morning mist Loon fishing quiet water Shining wake behind
I saw their faces as clearly as if… on their stones beneath their name… heard their voices in the trees whose roots go deep into their dus… and into the dust of this Island
mall tree never felt a breeze sweet swell of spring rain on your leaves new life in your branches
I’ve known rivers swift currents set free escaping to the brine of the ocean and on to exotic places I’ll never be
pillars of sunshine through cloud - heavenly suburb under construction
Pappa always told me that you should never tell all you… and I found it to be good advice I recall the time I got back from… with my winter stores back in ‘39
Many times, my father, drunk upon… “Spare the rod and spoil the child… Swung his belt and lay the stripes… To cleanse my soul. And I, drunk upon memory and whis…
looking at the world through drops of counterfeit lace on the window pane
A man sits reading under a “SIZ… He does not look sizzling hot He looks quite ordinary in fact Perhaps feeling me watching him… (Not noticing the sign because it…
it was always said that of all the people on the Island I loved life the best I who had the least but I had all I needed
inhumanity kills boys civilization kills girls
a great blue heron watches from a mogul of grass as I scavenge a poem from the marsh Tom Peepety calls
odd to think of the world without… a frozen corpse in the revolving e… molten lava below cold stars above journeying through the long, wide… unknowing
a cold moon filters down through the purple asters no explorers have returned with caterpillar robes and dandelion gold