Blacktop Islands

The bridges I’ve crossed
Are now jagged and useless islands
Gradually, crumbling to sand

But their pillars will stand
Long after I’ve frittered the strength
To do the same

And they’ll speak for me
In hushed and loveless refrains
Until, they fall to my depths


The Tree Leaning Over the River

A timely wind
Will someday loosen my grasp
On these fatherly branches

I will treasure the moment I glide
To the river below,
And its swift unraveling of time

But I will mourn
When I’ve finally lost sight of home,
Of the leaning tree
That has shed its last leaf

Smoke Signals

Idle time brings me to a simmer
When my desperate stride
Has withered to a crawl

Hours expand and I sink
Into the bleach stained carpet,
Beneath ivory trees and giants
Who groan and lament

My column of smoke will disperse by first light
Before these gods can rain down
Their once secreted affection

To Our Divide in the Sand

Before I’ve even struggled to my feet
She is prodding me to life
And onto finer things

While her world is alight
I thrash in the dark, with an arm outstretched
As I lunge to the east,
Within the heart of a dream

She too extends through the haze of dawn
Toward our fading divide
Among grains of dust

Serpentine Weeds

Serpentine weeds
Have coiled around my throat
Tightening, to the pulsing rhythms of dread

They are born in the shadows of a nightmare
When the rivers in my mind overflow
With months of rain

They hunt by day
Behind the precious masks
I lift to the watchful skies

They scheme in the dead of night
To have their nightmarish vines
Forever snake through my boiling blood


Sometimes, all that can be spared
Is a lifeless stare
And the shrug of defeat

Some days we march home
In spite of our deep lacerations
When the heavens grow heavy and dark

Some years take decades to shake
And they thrive in your stomach,
Denying you a full night’s rest

Some eras bleed out,
Flooding into the next
While stifling the cries
Of all that could have been

The Shellshocked Refugee

She arrives in paradise
Where a lone road branches into many;
To be hunted
By the devils she once fled from

Their melodies pour
Until she wearily slurs in tune
And she’s forgotten the toll
Of her ancestral voice

She’s falling,
From the fading barrages of a war,
Into the opening salvos of another