What is This Dream

So vivid, but the sky is muted, again

my childhood home I do reside,

and with my sisters and my mother.

There were the lace curtains, but 

brighter than what I remembered,

pristine, and even the wooden floors

seem newly stained.

I am surprised! A guest has arrived,

beloved and still stranger.

Dissapointed, he becomes,

with my appearance

or with my hypervigilant, spacial -fondness.

Still, my sister pulls me aside, 

whispering words of encouragement,

telling me not to count out 

the stars in my favorite constellation.

The scene shifts to a future unknown,

a place of laughter and play,

and I overhear about the loose

crocodile before I see it;

my child points him out.

Dark green, and at least six feet,

the scaled beast spies my daughter,

and in a moment sized her for his

great grim appetite.

I called for the help of my mirrored psyche, 

and as if a game, he lifted her above 

and bounced her away from reptilian fate,

empty jaws left snapping.

Ecstatic from this victory, I shamelessly

celebrated, and laughed with mirthful

tones, mocking the croc from afar.

Again, forward I go into the land

of overcast skies, a different time,

but not too distant.

A girl I knew, but was not friends with,

a person I secretly envied,

tells me of a proposition, a non-traditional

relationship. And though I am outraged,

I help her.

Dark-grey stones blaze from the sky

as if the weather has allowed

the storm at last, and they singe 

bright yellow, orange, and blue

banners that hang above the shops,

leaving smoking holes where they fell through,

but I am not harmed.

I worry instead for the girl,

and we weave between the 

firey shower. She blames volcanoes,

but there are none here, I know.

We enter an exhibit, some zoo,

climb the fence into this verdant world

that seems detached from judgement.

I find the supplies, and hear her scream,

this girl. I run to where I think she is, 

find her bloodied, her leg is ripped, 

but the animal flees upon sensing me,

Jaguar and I in a cage.

We scale the fence, away to the transport,

a van of moderate size.

I find a seat and three come to sit

with me. I greet the one closest,

and he remarks that I confuse him

for someone else, and must think them

all to look alike. I study them,

and find differences in the faces,

and the small, pointed ears they each own.


Unworthy Ambition

Be still, and listen to the

sounds of earth:

whispers of wind through the grass,

swaying of the branches in its dance,

how timorous the flight of

each set of segmented wings

separates time and space,

creating flight for instances

of insect peril.

How feathered beasts quell

thirsty beaks that pull back soil,

tree bark, and unroot small, 

wriggling worms or larvae in

their sleepy hovels, unearth 

small secrets hiding in plain sight,

their eyes fixed on baubles and trinkets

for their woven homes in trees.

To take flight in a moment, 

the hind’s plight, the hart’s great

test against predator and play alike.

Listen for the brook untended,

the signs of life without souls,

but not without spirit, something 

overlooked in assessing the worth

of water and rock.

It is the essence of man to take from

seemingly useless and create use,

but for this age it is a burden 

that has been cast to better men.

It is in the stillness of a meadow,

the life of what is living with us,

alongside of us, without aid,

nor merchant purpose.

That is not the fate to what we 

were given to care for, allow

the earth to rest, grow fallow,

yet industry and trade barter

better than the fields of earth,

unturned by spade or shovel, 

untouched by man’s presence

or plan. 

Where stars align under no moral,

and moon guides no purpose greater

than what it is, this is where I urge

you to listen, and speak when you

have heard me.

Proposal of the Nymph to the Woodsman

Your stare is more keen 

than the blade

in your hand,

has cut me down, 

struck true

against my structure,

felled against my nature.

You have not touched me,

yet I skid across the damp

earth, and my boughs tangle against 

old fallen leaves, half-decomposed.

I implore you, if you must

take my of flesh 

to make something,

let it be a book.

Let my pages be filled with 

ink detailing your life’s story,

hopes and dreams unfulfilled,

secrets you wouldn’t bear

to another soul.

Let me rest against

my sisters’ spines,

in a library of your designing,

a codex of enigma,

a leather-bound tome

that breathes upon opening.

May I live in a forest of words

unending, instead of this

silenced-hollowed grove.

A hundred years may pass

alone, and I am rooted in this

place, so far from my 

mother’s glen. 

Come, displace my memories,

and fill me with your own.


Knee-deep into study of an usurping 

toad uncle, such a villain this,

and there, from the corner of my mirror

stands she.

She whispers fierce curses, eaten up by

anger and a loathsome sense

of entitled bitterness,

wishes only for retribution 

of the dead.

A keen woman in the desert

placed a stake through her story’s

villain, not even a lead role in that play,

 and yet you murmur an aside.

Is it possible the curse lain on you,

the sickness of the rich your

playwright stitched in conversation

might render your disposition 

of your order or principality,

and not the fairer race, that

princes in their greatest desire

to foil an evil plot would be only 

left in words and not in acts?

Phantom, tell me you are dead.

No living, breathing queen would

sound so helplessly for kin. 

A Decision to be Made

Hulking and heavy, a boulder
hoisted high above a pit,

looming, whispers and

baited breath from below

to chance a glimpse

the moment that it drops.

These few seconds of suspense,

a tiresome feat to behold, do little 

to help the one trying to be anchor, 

pulling on the ropes in every desperate 

attempt to keep the rock above.

It’s seen in the dust that is stirred up,

the unsteady steps that keep trying

to find a more helpful foothold,

the shoes worn down til the soles

have no traction, and the silent

resolve in a grip of a person

whose shaking arms have lasted this long

in a struggle between what 

is possible and probable, but

the boulder seeks to take captor

with it, allow the chasm to swallow

whole the one who grasps, white-knuckled.

Is it better to let go of the heavy stone 

and move on, in disappointment,

 than lose footing and fall in after?

Rants of the Disillusioned

He loves himself.

He pronounces it,

a squalling peacock roosting high

in his own tree.

Could loving anyone more be anything than

blasphemy of his own self-worship?

He directs his words to nobody,

speaking out loud to the air as if it listens–as if

the air would slow to listen to him.

For all of your complaints, self loving man,

and the fruitless pursuit of those

who wouldn’t give you the time of day,

perhaps it would be best

to leave it to yourself.


​Time to understand this notion,

this temporary madness instilled within my own,

still a whisper, barely evident in the eve of this

shadow who is listening and taking into account.

There is nothing in this space, but the small footfalls,

unholy thoughts no longer allowed to enter,

come to collect some buried mystery
or another.

Enter and leave at your leisure,

but disrupt and take only what you may account for;

many varied verse will take and entrance

to let the dreams enjoy brief respite

for the realist tomorrow they face,

and fall not for the many faces that it shows,

it is only one who masquerades as two or three,

but is only one.