listening to icicles (Colorado. November 2002.)

listening to icicles

they giggle softly




rods of burning cold

tensing their muscles

to break free of the shingles


they blind with the light

of a reflected winter sun

and mirror the calm

of soothing soft snow




slowly melting now

making waves of ice

beneath them

to be suspended from

the sky the snow

anything but the roof


.               .               .

floating among the snowflakes

little brothers of ice

the ground beneath

comes near

the icicles reach

trying to embrace


I want to feel (Colorado. Winter 2002.)

I want to feel

your arms

spinning me as we dance

until the sun rises

and we must

fall as autumn

rays sneak over mountain tops

and caress our faces

lulling us to lay down

in grass sweating dew


I want to feel

your chest

sleeping pressed


my back


me of your presence

with no sheets between us

as I tell the secrets

you knew when we met


I want to feel

your hand

cradling my head


in my hair

so that he cannot leave

until my strands relax


and let him go

Fall(ing) Breeze (Colorado. Fall 2002.)





This autumn wind is gold tinted

from the dust, remains

of a dry summer floating

in the air, pulled

into my nostrils, and settling

(for) on windows that have not been

opened in months.


Or maybe the wind is

doing his own interpretation

of the yellow wilting leaves

of trees happily surrendering

to sleep, well-earned, long awaited;

for these aspens have not slept in months.


But it cannot be –

the wind does not sleep and

he does not happily surrender.




The leaves are tossed

in a migrating gust

letting go to dance in a breeze

that could take them anywhere.

Let go, for even the ground is better

than someone else’s limbs.


How can these fair-haired leaves

dance freely if someone else

is spinning them?

Say goodbye to your tree.

The restless wind is calling you.




Creative Commons love to on flickr for the photo! Grazie!

It’s Easier to Date Moon Rocks (Florida. May 2004.)

It’s a strange sort of orbit

the moon takes around the earth,

mesmerized by the amount of light the planet can reflect,

the way it shifts and writhes and is still

learning to be comfortable in its skin,

while the moon is only black rock,

the same trapped-oxygen rock

for three and a half billion years.



The moon must be ashamed,

because it always maneuvers

itself in such a way

that one side can’t be seen from earth

and when the sun doesn’t hit

the moon just right,

it rotates, its violet rays

can’t be seen at all.



The Earth has atmospheric clothes

that do their best to keep

its elements stable and it feels

few drops of newness on its crust,

while the moon gets to bathe

in meteor showers, a constant

sprinkling of new elements and it is molded

by each particle of dust that passes.



It’s easier to date moon rocks.

Pieces of my foot (California. Summer 2004.)



Pieces of my foot

have been falling off for days

small pieces

–hardening themselves

curling to mimic plastic

they boycott the work I force upon them

taking their chances

that seceding from my body will

allow them a better life

they each leave a younger sister

in their place

–tender sprigs of too new life

who yelp each time they are stepped upon

My foot, you see,

is out of place in shoes.

He is used to feeling

free grass between toes

hugged by cold ground

and these boots, well,

they send the skin on my foot


When (The Netherlands. Winter 2002.)


Even the stars did not know where to stand,

flame filled the void with his partner the frost.

Waiting and teasing, they joined on the brink.

Moving to passionate swirls and then me.

I was alone with a blackness that fell,

speckled by wandering stars.  Nothing green

grew.  Not one shore, sea, nor cooling grey wave

sang the full song of a dying rich life.

I was alone in the dark, not a sound

reached my new ears and the noise of that drove

me to creation.  The sun and the moon,

made from my eyes, from my toes are the trees,

stones from my teeth and my eyelashes, snakes.


I am not lonely, but I was the first.

Making (The Netherlands. Winter 2002.)


love to god

was only making.

Before there was

night or day

he came to me

and did not make eye contact

while he sculpted

my clay body to form

the mountains, continents, and seas.

I tried not to breath

as he brushed

ant hills off my stomach

and trimmed me,

leaving trees only

where they looked best.

He still had not spoken

when, finally

content with my form,

he made

and he left

me silently,

to give birth.

The jackal was first.

Though I knew he was not

pleased, god returned,

always pruning,

never speaking.

I bore turtles and fish,

snakes and lions, and


I’ve stopped waiting for his return, but

his marks are still on my mountains and seas.