What I Am

Am I just,

A vessel,

A cup of fresh air

A hole of flesh and blood

A cavern in some forgotten mountain

A step in a step in a step

A rung on the ladder of time

An empty beer bottle

A scaly snake’s shed skin

A vacant hotel room

A fireplace in August

A hidden drawer in an old oak desk

A plastic funerary boat

A rusted halo on an angel’s head

A poor man’s wallet

A brown envelope never once posted

A shoe box with only one shoe

A missing person’s bodiless casket

An unfilled cargo plane

A hollow tree on the edge of the loneliest wood




I am just

A human.


Ice-Cold Steel

Thin ice-cold steel.

Sometimes I need a different kind of meal.

I’m seeing double

Double the grey is grey,

The ancient pathway

Like a pond in mid-winter frozen.



My windows are so so dusty.

I am an evergreen

But my leaves are brown this time of year,

There are whispers on my lips

So soft, so low that I cannot hear

A lump in my throat though there is

Perhaps there are tears when I sleep

Ask my pillow because I wouldn’t know.


Thunder snaps inside my skull,

Waved away by them

These arms once wound around,

I am a child’s pet

Gifted on Christmas

But now it is February

And the vertigo has yet to wear off,

In my ice-cold steel cage.


Like a snail on a windy day,

Stick to the ground

Move move move

Against the winds of today,

For grass goes with the breeze

But the breeze goes with the trees.


The polar bear roams alone,

White white white as cold steel ice,

The primal predator stalks the mice

Watch your back

These other bears are barely friends.


So I sit here,

See this cold steel ice

I look into his face

Soft warmth in his creases

The greatest friend, brother, lover

In the mirror I see me.

Death of a Raindrop in a Storm

We waited around the corner

With the weeds and the dying flowers of the roadside,

All of us, all of the mourners

Two hundred parallel arms and legs,

Black coated kindred

At the base of the hill

Like raisins left

Forgotten on a windowsill,

And the martyr came

He’d a car to his own

And we hoisted him on our shoulders

And sang him the war songs of yesteryear,

The weepers wept

Moans from somewhere near

Perforated by bursts of gunfire

As his friends took to shooting the clouds out of the sky,

The monotone of the Sheikh

The final accompaniment to this piece,

And then we buried him

And then we forgot about him.

The Blooming of a Short Boy

In the clearing amidst the bushes.

The green leaves of the woods.

Among the honey coated insects,

And the smell of jasmine.

Between the sunflowers of the meadow

A young doe,

Its muscles flexed with

The frolicking motion of young creatures.

In the bright June noon

On this sun stained day.


Day drowns and the moon is drawn,



In a silver spring

Flowing from her lovely neck,

Like sap from a mapple.


And though the little doe was all but dead

Her eyes still glimmered, two lights in her head.

Perhaps all the stars are

But does’ eyes in the skies,

And in the silver mirror on the floor, see

The face of the man I have for so long sought

To be.

The Scene from My Dream

The road glimmers,

A reflection of the streetlamp

On the wet ground,

And all around

The silence drops slowly.

The petrichor illuminates all.

A black tabby cat crosses the street

Its tail, an antenna.

The dark of the night,

Like a gun slinger threatens,

But the lustering light holds.

And the stars shine somewhat

Through punctures in the dark clouds.

The green on the banks

Grey and dripping with rainwater.

Every now and then

A car passes,

Disturbing the peace for seconds

And then past the curve

Into tomorrow.


The silver moon

Shines down upon

The silent desert dunes,

Like a lighthouse on a calm sea.

And the cool night winds of this barren place,

The only bearers of news.

A campfire in a corner somewhere

To warm the hands of these weary travelers,

Who huddle and speak in hushed tones

As though trying not to wake

The great sleeping wasteland.

The camels have little to eat

And even less to drink.

And all around

Just out of earshot,

The Sahara whispers

Words in an ancient language.

A Depiction of Glory

The armies left

A few hundred men on the hill,

And there is enough blood for

The grass to grow.

The green is drenched in red,

These happy crows will enjoy their meal.

The smell of burnt hair

Like incense in the air,

And some quiet wails

Permeate to other dimensions.

It is all very still,

Only the stained flowers sway

In the cold wind,

And amongst the carnage

He plays the Danse Macabre

Gently on his violin.