if/then
if
there’s more to snow than melting
more to waves than churning
more to leaves than burning,
then
there’s more to loss than losing
more to grief than crying
more to death than dying.
—Poetry in Plain Sight,
North Carolina Poetry Society, 2024
A Miner and a Gardener Both
Generations have trod, have trod, have trod,
And all is seared with trade; bleared, smeared with toil…
And, for all this, nature is never spent;
There lives the dearest freshness deep down things;
--Gerard Manley Hopkins
Did your name—Vincent—
on your brother’s tomb,
pre-load your palette
with earthen umbers in the early years,
as you picked your way
through darkened shafts bereft of light?
Did those potato eaters, earthy and forlorn,
portend a life of dread-filled days?
So it seemed.
But suddenly,
like seeds popping from the soil,
you make a play for air and light.
Growing gold in your painter’s plot,
sunflowers bloom, wheatfields glow,
fellow workers pose for you,
a postman and his wife.
Forthright faces, brazen blooms
writhing cypress trees
all announce you’re living in the light.
When evening comes, you splash your golden
brush against the darkening sky—
but your many stars prove no match
for the midnight hues with whom they dance.
Darkness never goes away,
your damaged ear hears the cruel taunts
and dismissive tones
echoed in the cawing of the crows.
And, for all this,
you worked away in well-worn boots,
a miner and a gardener both.
—Wild Roof, Winter, 2025
Submittable
I may not care
to dress my words
in the clothes
of what they’re
s’posed to wear.
I may not care
to load my brush
with muted tones
and nuanced notes
of artsy irony.
I may not care
to learn the code
one needs to know
to open up
the castle door.
I may not care
if plaster casts
on my limbs
are signed by those
I’ve never met.
I may not care
if you see me
as I am–
a quirky mix
of green and gray.
You may not care
for what I write,
and if you don’t,
I may not care–
but yet I might.
—Witcraft, March 2025
The Door
The day they threw the rice
we vowed to be a pair
for whom the door would open twice:
once to bring two in,
once to take one out.
At the start we knew not what to do,
self-exiled in a room, dark and dimly lit,
we opened windows here and there,
filled our lungs with country air
and bathed together in the light.
We learned to live beyond ourselves
not by going out but by bringing in.
Since you’ve been gone
the days are much the same.
I keep the windows clean
to better see the skies we always saw,
the birds are flying free,
a breeze blows gentle through our room,
and if the flowers seem a little late
they never fail to bloom.
It’s night that tries to have its way.
When the bed’s too wide
the thoughts too loud,
I drag my blanket cross the floor
and lay me down beside the door.
As you rustle on the other side,
I close my eyes and dream with you
as if you never died.
—-Kakalak 2024
My Brain is a Dog,
which has its ups and downs.
Lunging on his leash,
he takes me places I may not want to go,
sniffing nuanced scents of random thoughts
found along the trail.
I dare not let him roam
lest I lose my mind.
But what to do?
Make him march in time
with logic’s haughty steps?
To be ever cogent and correct
seems a little cold, even cruel.
Maybe fence him in a big backyard,
let his neurons freely fire,
with no fear of burning down the house.
He eats his meals from shelves of books
and snacks upon the bits and bytes
of googlicious treats.
There’s lots of
who and what, where and when,
but mostly
why, oh why, oh why?
He keeps me up half the night,
paws pounding round
the racetrack of my head,
chasing squirrels of what’s to come,
and what’s been left behind.
No matter what the night might bring,
the squeaky toy of his existence
wakes me every dawn to greet another day,
another day of work and play.
Good boy!
—Witcraft, March 2025
Just Asking
Mother, please.
When you don your dazzling gowns
full of shock and awe,
do you mean to turn your back
on those who need your love?
CHURNING CLOUDS
LIGHTNING STRIKES
SURGING TIDES
BUCKLING ROADS
FLOODED FIELDS
SWIRLING WINDS
FIERY WOODS
TOPPLED TREES
Mother, please.
Wear instead your comfy robe,
Embrace us in the arms of days
that serve to soothe
our beaten, battered selves.
gurgling brooks
cotton clouds
gentle winds
lapping waves
tiny flowers
sprouting bulbs
sparkling sands
twinkling stars
Mother, please.
—The Nature of Our Times, January 2025
Poetry and Prose
“we’re wonderful one times one”
—e e cummings
Newlywed
they sat atop
the poet’s
lofty perch,
resolved to fly
above the fray.
No sooner did they flap their wings
than all their plans came crashing down.
They quickly learned that life is better lived
if feet are planted on the ground.
They winced a bit, but had to say
it’s mostly prose that rules the day.
And rule it did…
• they drove to work
• wrote some code
• went to school
• taught some kids
• mowed the lawn
• pulled the weeds
• took some trips
• cooked their meals
• had some fights
• made some love
• walked their dogs
• read their books
• drank some wine
…and said goodbye.
Upon her death
he flew again
to the perch
from which it
all began.
Looking down
upon their days
they truly were a life of prose.
But wrapped within, around, above,
in each and every breath of air
the poet’s words were always there.
—The Scop Literary Magazine, Spring 2025
Show, not Tell
As Helene wreaked her havoc
on our hallowed hills,
I saw a hummingbird,
undeterred by driving rain,
undisturbed by snapping branches,
unafraid of shingles flying from the roof.
She darted in and out,
seeking sweetness like any other day.
Without a drop to drink for a day or two,
we flailed about, uncertain what to do.
Then kindness flowed from neighbors
near and far, known or not.
They filled our feeders slow and sure,
as we sipped and sipped and sipped again.
They did not come to tell us what to do,
but to show us how to make it through.
—Appalachian Journal, Summer 2025
Sipping
Ripened by a setting sun,
picked with gnarly fingers,
crushed with purple toes,
aged inside an oaken soul,
sip these notes of love and loss,
these hints of hurt and hope,
reflecting when and where
the grapes were grown.
Uncork the bottle of my words,
hold them up to the light,
swirl the read around your glass,
sniff the scent
taste the tart
drink the dark.
Let the swallowed verse
not belly flop
into a pool of gastric juice--
but spring instead to a higher place
and linger there with a bit of grace.
—Brillig, Winter, Spring 2025
My Address
Find me
a mile or more
from the Church of Dos and Don’ts,
where Dim meets Dark,
and Sweet turns Sour.
Not far from the Bar
of Dreaming Big,
a block from Bluff and Bluster,
on dying Dogwood Avenue,
near the wild and weedy park
that borders on the River Styx,
in my house of broken bricks.
—Brillig, Winter, Spring 2025
Broken String
As my eyes swim their way
through the deep blue pool
of a perfect sky,
I see a red balloon
dip her toe in the cerulean sea.
With her severed string hanging free
she bobs and floats,
then hovers over me.
I feel a tug on the broken string
still tied around my wrist
and realize--
I’ve just been kissed.
—Brillig, Winter, Spring 2025