Not Once Was I…

Let me linger a moment, there in the pain of you; your lips trembled with a deep torture; your eyes fighting but losing the battle of loosing tears; your heart, I could literally see it dripping out of you, coming up your throat, sputtering & choking; the skin of you was heaving, barely remaining upon your bones; your mind had become a loud roaring hum of near obliteration; and not once was I healed by your pain. Not once was I skillfully, miraculously cured of my own agonies or my own sadnesses. Never have your tragedies made me triumphant.


watching this light—it is mine, this quality of ownership invades me & spirals out, encompassing 

I’ve no interest in this is your & this is mine & im foreign & you are native & this was theirs & then I stole it & then they lost & then we won, & ive no interest in stars or stripes or leaves or colours or ownership beyond a moment, the one now, where the trees have this particular sway, in this particular light, & this moment here, in this place, this is mine, this is mine, forever, this. is. mine. 


The subtleness of the man he is, 

Gazing out upon the world

Not knowing where he goes, or in fact,

From what he came, but 

To have touched what soul is mine

And breathe with it, the hints

Of grey upon us both, yet still,

I feel this—

We are young & we are Love

Gradient Shifts

i feel the tonal greys, the gradient shifts
the cool of how snow falls
& misinterprets the rocks
into staggered abstract masterpieces
how blood can slow, running veins
with a slither more than
a rage
how the trees hold tight
the buds of spring awaiting
a grey that bubbles up into
a slatey blue, that bursts
open into indigos & fine wines
a sunrise that tips open
cycling in phases of green
ripping the buds from the clutch
of the greedy grey
& suddenly we’re all flying
& suddenly we’re all dreaming
& i’m just broken
& i’m just fine
& i’m just hovering in the warm
& i’m just a bird
& i’ve just got this sky
& i’m just enraptured with a sunset
& that is just
the smallest, most whispered
of gradient shifts
& night falls & falls

Moments in Midlife

I feel the roughed powder of snow still on my skin blowing with the wind as at whips past the building edges. I look beyond these walls of time & still I wonder, will I ever feel summer soaked down into me as I do the winter? Summer, with all its temporary heat & the agony of burnt light & my lips chapped & red, sweating, stinging & caked in madness, it has a ring of winter’s torture juxtaposed & just as merciless. But, I can’t feel it to my bones. 

Inside, I hear my heart crack off it’s icy sheath, a little glassy snap, as it breathes & beats. It’s a little blue tinged & the blood, thick & globular shuffling through my chilled inner world, it’s all got a echoey hum, not the buzzing warm whir of summer-sweet. 

The night sky that lives inside my dreams is dark with navy & bright with the northern lights skipping about, everything is heavy & light is a sharpness, always coming or going but never fully there. 

I have craved summer like a starved dog wasted & shivering, spattered in the roadside muck on the highway, everything speeding beyond, never stopping. I have thought the light & the warmth would soothe me & refresh this deep tiredness that inhabits my core. But as the light lengthens & summer slowly creaks open, the ground greening ever so slightly, the buds pushing beyond the stem to swell, I am still so weak. The muscles of my soul atrophied & aching, just aching, with waste & exhaustion & misery & I lay, soaking up light like water, letting it wash over & heaven help me, to pick up these weary fragments of skin & spirit & not plummet down into the graves of the masses, forgotten & consumed by Time’s gnashing teeth. 

…and I sit, very still, & very quiet, & think, this is the full bodied knowledge of halfway through this strange long walk of life or, it is the last agonizing steps of the old life & the new one will be long & sweet & unending. 

Feels Like An Artsy Day Out

A.J. Casson (1898-1992)

October, North Shore, 1929

I feel like the North shore, beaten & wind-worn, the slim edges faded into moldy tones of oblique. My skin is like the crusted lichen, painted with drear of Winter & a little too dry, crumbling at the touch of even a small bug. 

I waste away, watching the sky shift & tide like the vast oceans, but my fingers can’t quite touch the waves, I cannot hear the roar—a silent movie. 

I trip on down the stones, accepting the scratches like little kisses on my skin. 


the sweet swill—
i feel the water rushing
my blood, each cell swell & plump
my skin, opening to glow
my eyes shimmering

what soft truth
smoothly flowing, out,
to the tired limbs
to the saddened heart
to the aching anguish where
death & grief should have swallowed, surely consumed me

slowly i breathe, the air
inflating my lungs until i feel
the rising of my heart, sweetness, can you hear it
galloping through every vessel
every vein thundering
thick with hope & love


Perhaps I’ve learned life from these Northern things, nothing comes quick & lovely. Life is a slow bloom sitting beneath the husk of the bud. All beauty lies encased in the darkness, long overdue—the pear blossoms shyly snug, the grass holding back its green. 

I lay, encased, awaiting the sun, the warmth, the breath of life & time. But when I bloom, will any remain to see the soft brightness & subtle sweetness I’ve been slowly becoming, or will I be lone in my little field—a flower, swaying in the gloom?