And so it goes… The wheel will turn,
you may find yourself bereft. But do not fret,
my little friend, for this is not the end.

This too shall pass and soon the farce of living will present
a brighter shaft, a better draft with newer paths to trek.

Tread gracefully, my little bird, flit lightly,
as it will, feeling the wind beneath your wings
embrace you as you curve

towards a new meridian, made sweeter for
the swerve, filling your heart up gleefully
to share when you emerge.


A missing link, a key,
an awkward fit betwixt
the learning and the leaving
and the wicked shape of this.

In shadows where beginnings rest
           and dwell on their goodbyes,

Images of fledgling things
           gaping from the wings.

Moon on Sun

When you have called
and I have caught
your words up in my heart

Not a thought may linger
longer than the breath
upon my shoulder

For lips bear promises
that hands and hearts too
easily betray

And I have not the verbiage
to set them down
or place them on their way

When through the trees
the boughs will meet
in circles filled with light

It is your message that I carry,
to enjoy this,
if I might.

Stage 1

When petals pale
and flutter to the floor
in musky pelt

Peel away the layers,
pretend it was never Spring
with blossoms’ blooming
yet to be discovered.

Even at curtain’s close
a stage remains to play:

Use rhythm wisely, tread
carefully; savour this,
Breathe in.


her hair hung askew,
to the curve of cheeks
risen to the hue
of blossoms burnished
by a blush of gold en
-crusted dew.



Hello there! May I ask if you are referencing 'The Chrysalids' in your self-blurb? ^.^

Hi! Sadly, no. Prior to receiving your message, I’d never even heard of the book. Now that I’ve wikied it I’m curious to read it, if only to understand how you made the connection. Also, I hear it’s a pretty fantastic read so, thank you for bringing it into my frame of reference. =)


No sooner than the mill begins
a stalk appears to quiver —

No quitting when the mill begets
a stalker for the spinner.


Beneath red lines,
the tapered edge, your
catacomb, a cold cocoon.

Spring blossoms bloomed
and grew to seize you,
shearing through the hedge

So you held the blade
to pace it’s prick, hiding
from the heft of it

But light caught up
with ash to find us
sifting for the threads.


In the wayward depths of distance, voices of a thousand men are bolts unto the ground. Before their feet, a faltering, a tremor clipped of sound.

Who charred the vast horizon and replaced the lathe with man?

To study landscapes boldly, shift space and mark the plane. These are my footprints, my fingertips small caverns for the clams and the carts we place around them topple as they drag.

Your shape against the sand devours a shadow where it shakes: make it quake. Thrust your hand before the firmament, damn it with a din. Then let us plait these braids together. Let us sing.


Our lonesome sheet of paper ails
tonight. She longs to fold herself
into creases of aligned symmetry,

devour a drop
of liquid ecstasy
and succumb

to the experience
of being torn
in two.