Shocked awake

In fight or flight

The stars are howling

In the night


The dark’s encroaching

On breath of life

The shadows writhe

I leap to fight


Grasping ghosts

With wild eyes

Wrestling wraiths

With bloody cries


Plunged into air

I leap and twist

And break a solid

With desperate fist


Shocked awake

In the kitchen

How did I wander

This peculiar distance


A clock is ticking

The sink is dripping

The moon is rising

And time is slipping


Spirits gone

Like receding waves

Back to their hollow

Designated graves


Bedsheets billow

On a laundry line

But dreams come a-haunting

Slyly sublime


In the spanish moss

The moon blinks a peek

The hours run like children

Playing hide and seek


And memories return

Like hail on cornfields

I will not run

From the past revealed


I have to face it

To stand and let it burn

Otherwise tis meaningless

Another empty turn


So let it burn

The smoke climbs higher

The strength’s refined

And weakness lost in fire.


Ferocity Restrained


That ladybug is done.

It splits its ruddy mold,

Splaying tiny fly wings

Unfurling from their fold.


That still small voice

Is only loud to little ears,

And those tiny drips dropping

Flood our cities after years


These marching ants move

Like a military fleet

While this tiny blade of grass

Is splitting concrete.


That quiet gentle zephyr

Turns the clouds into rain.

The beach is built with sand:

Grain by grain.


Slowly the seconds slip

Into many hours,

And the prince who has no people

Has no mighty power.


These empty silent choices

Do a lifestyle make

Each breath culminates

To be that which death will take


And every little wave

That comes gliding into shore

Makes the blacktop highways

A little less secure


The eye is full of looking

But it is too big to see

The smallness of importance:

That restrained ferocity


The fury of a pheasant wing

The insect’s compound eye

The force of fishtails flitting

The ladybug lifts to fly


And all these tiny things

That we may or may not see

Tell us little stories

About our souls great brevity.


Consider the  faux pas

Of making triumphal entry

with 11 disciples pulling you

on a stubborn stolen donkey


The ladybug is done.

He flies away home,

And you are left to wonder

To let your blood roam.


“Those dots, they aren’t my eyes

They are my gilded thorax

Those things, they aren’t your life

They are your little knick-nacks.”