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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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brought to bay

A nightmare -
slash and burn
and public executions
the colosseum walls broken
spilling a thirsty flood
onto satellites 
the berserker roars of 
encore encore!
the fat lady singing
but no one hears
no one hears
with ear drums burst -
Let me wake now
I want to be awakened by song 


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equivocate illusion

in vision's luminosity

shifting sand of pattern


maybe life


colour changes hue

commencing red to blue

blind eyes begin

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Nowhere to Hide

Emotions are sly snakes
they creep up
behind your back
chasing you down
spiral staircases
that lead nowhere
Like snipers
lying in wait
eyes trained
till you’re alone
then they strike
while you’re in line
checking out
at the market
and some old woman
in front
turns and says
“oh dear, are you okay?
I promise my order
won’t take long?

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A desideratum (or, Stumbling upon Hunab Ku may cause dizziness and confusion)

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24hours/7days a Week


Randomly I pick things off
like lint on my sweater
small things
that piss me off

the worker bee
giving it all
for the one
who makes
a drop by appearance
and is crowned queen

useless to bitch about
no one would care

but the lint balls
on my sweater
that reappear

wear and tear

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Quiet mornings of dawn
drawn selfishly
to myself
with purposeful  reflection
picking seeds
I’ve yet to sow
tomorrow I may see
tomorrow I may know
today, this morning
I want nothing
but this time
all to myself

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Does it make a sound?

I am tired

Closing eyes and forgetting the world seems small comfort yet I take it as it is, an escape from broken branches and a rotting stump. Branches that once reached for lofty heights, supple lengths filled with life and growth. Now dry, cracked. Brittle. Strewn about waiting for savage fires embrace as kindling, as this is the measure of their worth now realised

The stump that once connected roots deep and far reaching to their sky loving counterparts slowly decaying in the wake of moss, termite and age. Failing as all grand things must in their time, a pathetic remnant of strength once envied.

I am tired

What impossible destruction visited to once proud flora, what insidious reduction of life to ruin. I have grown, flourished and fallen to the elements. No water may quench the thirst of my despair, no sun rays may invigorate that which hastens to dark disrepair. The forest mourns but all are static and reach in vain to a fallen willow

I am tired

Spread my shrinking substance across the hungry undergrowth, let all within my radius take sustenance from my meager offerings. This is my final gift, a far cry from hearth and home that offered sanctuary and shade but it is what I have left to imbue.

Sleep comes swift and the leaves are of sienna hue, there is naught I can do to resist the approaching Fall. Perhaps in time the acorn may take hold and what I once was might reclaim towering observance, but earthen nurseries are sparse. Creeper vines thick. The weather unforgiving.

And I am so very tired…