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Source of the Huron

Layers of fog
     early morning
          a gauze bandage

covering a wound of swamp
     shallow bowl of cat tail
          common reed

lily pad
     duck weed
          Siberian iris

long hollow stems
     of snake grass like
          miniature shafts of bamboo.

Frogs, snakes, muskrat
     fawn twins
          brought to drink

by a nervous mother,
     alert, ears twitching
          Heron fishing

lifts one leg carefully
     lowering it down again
          into sucking soft ooze

of mucky bottom
     disturbing nothing
          hunching its long body

peering into unmoving water.
     How different from the miles
           downstream where Henry Ford

imprisoned the dark water
     behind his concrete dam
          to power a factory no longer there.

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He seemed just another drunk
on a stool at the end of the bar
every night until closing time.

Once he was a pilot.
There is a photo of him
on the wing of a P-36
that he didn’t get off the ground
at Pearl Harbor.

He did a little carpentry after that,
spent little time with his delicate wife
and their three sturdy sons.
He tended a small garden and watched
as life slowly dried like dew.

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when the winds of whim & woe 
threaten to whip and lay waste 
our weathered, winnowed vessel;

as emotional electrical storms erupt 
emitting intermittent lightning strikes, 
causing men and women alike to scurry home
to society’s cerebral shelters;

i am an anchor that tethers;

in a sea of scienter and temporal tempests
threatening to toss us to and fro at high tide,
against cragged, unforgiveable coral;

which, would we make its’ acquaintance,
would spell the end 
of all we love, hope and hold true, 
in other words - we’d die.

i plumb the depths.

rusty, crusted and stolid,
i am an anchor;

long may i anc.

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i could throw together
an adjective or two
and those words
may just impress you
for only a minute or two

but of all the words
i write in english
or with my pen
none could ever bring
the true meaning
of my love for you
until times' end

you see when my bones grow old and brittle
and my skin begins to wrinkle
these words will stand tall and true
they'll never ever alter in their view

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Where Do the Ducks Go?

A young man once asked

a cab driver in a troubled voice,

“Where do the ducks go

in the wintertime?”


Call me ignorant.

Call me out on my simplicity,

but similar thoughts have crossed my mind.


You shake your head at me,

rolling your stormy blue eyes.

You tell me they fly south

just like the robins and the geese.


But, as you sit there

with a smug smile pursed on your lips,

I can’t help but wonder

about the last one to hatch--

the runt of the bunch that struggled

to free himself from his warm white enclosure.


I can’t help but think

of the yellow ball of fluff

that still waddles behind his mother,

watching wide-eyed from the ground

while his brothers take off into the horizon.


Where do the ducks go

when the pond freezes over?


Where do we go when

the icy wind is at our faces,

and we’re not sure if we can fly? 

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I miss you

I miss you

like an ache in my bones

contracted muscles

encompassing an empty space

wandering eyes

to find a reminder on my finger


carved into my skull

that'll never reach my lips

my mouth going through the motions

but never amounting to much

and my fingers

inching towards

but never hitting 

the send button

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Rape Culture

When you’re ten
and your father’s
friends grin
and tell you how nicely
you’re developing, 
you learn to keep playing
and say thank you
because you’re still
too young to understand
just what they mean 
by that. 
When you’re thirteen
and your mother’s
lover buys you a new 
dress because
“it’ll look sexy on you”,
you learn to wear it  
no matter how much you
hate it
and say thank you 
because you don’t want
to cause another argument.
When you’re sixteen
and that guy on the football team
spikes your drink at a party
and muffles your screams with
his fist as he 
slams himself into you
you learn to keep your mouth
and say thank you
because you know nobody
is going to believe you
if you tell the
When you’re twenty
and your mind gets the best of you
telling you it was all your fault, 
you deserved it,
nobody will ever want you now, 
you learn to
and say thank you
because you know that
for the first time
the power is in your

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expressing welcome

Rusty metal bridge and an angry running stream show life beginning to thaw
The cold bitterness is breaking to saturate the pores of the land and give way to a movement seemingly going forward …. All the while a single ponder
In which the search for influence , a mental stimulant , a convincing factor 
stating that it is okay to be here and to move forward as well.

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At yonder poetry

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Something made

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