Category: Nature Poetry

  • Levity

    Levity

    Sprawled on a grassy field

    The world turns despite my stillness

    Clouds drift across these eyes

    A flock of birds

    gathers, then fractures

    Patterns in the sky

    The heart is never frozen

    Change comes like

    bird droppings—

    One can only laugh in life.

  • Sea Turtle III

    Sea Turtle III

    What does it mean
    to write?

    Is it an exhalation—the birth of something
    onto the swirling sands of the Earth?

    What compels
    the heart to swim through the violent currents
    within itself,
    and to pour what springs,
    into a cup lined with stars?

    Piously, the writer waits—

    watching for what emerges
    from sparkling
    uncertainty…

    __

    Now arises the Word.
    It is the god of the human soul,

    and its truth echoes across tide and surge.

    It is a wonder,
    how it pools into the fragile spaces
    under the night sky—everywhere
    that reverberates with the rough strum of life
    and sleeps under the tender flute sigh of death.

    __

    Somehow, when this Word is born,
    its lyric life swells within the heartbeats of the globe—

    Nothing is ever silent.
    No sea is ever barren.

    What it means
    to write

    is to cast away one’s shell
    and bare
    one’s luminosity.

  • Midday Sky

    Midday Sky

    I.

    Chilly wind.
    The XH bus passes,
    and over Chelten Ave
    the clouds roll in their bed
    on the verge of crying.

    II.

    A few minutes have passed.
    Still that same cold air,
    but sunlight peeks behind grey layers,
    smiling.

  • Day Again

    Day Again

    Early morning—building creaking, alarm
    in hallway, broken, going off.
    Winter whispers through a slice of unclosing
    window and goosebumps respond to its call.
    Cars honk, angry men honk louder,
    voices rumble and blend together,
    an ambiance that says “alive.”
    Morning has arrived,
    though some are no longer here to greet it,
    some have faded with the prior night—
    it’s all bullet shells and rockets blazing,
    fangs tearing and beaks breaking;
    it’s all an ecstasy of perfumed sighs,
    a veiny gripping explosion of cries.
    Moons go down and ignite horizons
    all over the great body,
    while buses nearby trace it
    like geese in the distance.
    The body stretches, creaks, and yawns.