Thursday, May 27, 2010


A mother learns her daughter to fly a kite,
Arms raised on the wind like a pagan sun dance reaching
As her body cuts through breezes that lift
Lift the stealth shape of cheap plastic into flight,
Gliding stationary as though standing still
Surveying the treescape beneath and rising ‘til
It reaches its last inch of rope pulled tight
‘Round her fist and resolute
In riding on the string of hope
Tethered to the palm which first gathered to her heaving bosom
The body of an ever-growing thing
Now staring up in wonder at what a little wind
And the sun at its highest can do.

Sunday, May 16, 2010

To Beat or Not to Beat

I feel kindred with Ginsberg
And his metaphysical urge for uncreated worlds of bliss
While the real thing spins around me
And I play with my mind and its too-many axes to grind
In self-grievance for not sharpening my dull shape
Into secrets of which the living poets are born to speak.
Filtering through thoughts as space through time,
I skip towns and fly over cities and make for hilly meadows
Mottled with Whitmanesque procreancies,
Flowery poesies and other fading fruits
Of a desert mirage and its barren inconstancies
While new seasons change into more poor rhymes
And even less reason.