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Raven

This is my 16th terzanelle, and the longest one I’ve written. This is also my first attempt to alternate between four meters in a consistent fashion. You should find that, starting with the second tercet, there is an interlocking pattern of hypercatalectic iambic pentameter, iambic pentameter, catalectic trochaic pentameter and trochaic pentameter. They’re all pentameters, but four different types woven together in a sort of braid. I was curious to see what the effect of this patterning would be. For the most part, I’m not unhappy with the results.

Raven

rugged feathers brush against my neck
something perches staunchly on my shoulder
croaking wisdom through an unseen beak

it seems an ancient being shrewd and sober
black as empty space between the stars
something perches staunchly on my shoulder

i sense a stern reproach to all my fears
dreads that formed from countless gripping losses
black as empty space between the stars

with rigid countenance it keenly watches
game to see me through each anxious qualm
dreads that formed from countless gripping losses

it came from somewhere in the subtle realm
skies abruptly filled with calling ravens
game to see me through each anxious qualm

this spirit somehow heard my lamentations
cries of savage pain that shook the clouds
skies abruptly filled with calling ravens

they soothe my grief in smooth or raucous chords
offered ever since they found me wailing
cries of savage pain that shook the clouds

this spirit and their spirits ever sailing
pass to me a gift of light and song
offered ever since they found me wailing

with rough and yet a clear enlightened tongue
subtle caws resounding in my spirit
pass to me a gift of light and song

whenever all is still i feel and hear it
rugged feathers brush against my neck
subtle caws resounding in my spirit
croaking wisdom through an unseen beak

Ravens have been special to me my entire life. Everyone who knows me for any length of time will eventually notice that ravens behave a little differently around me than they do other people. They still act like ravens, but they seem to show an awareness of me that they don’t of others. Maybe one day I’ll end up befriending one of these birds and I can study its behavior more closely. They’re fascinating beings.

Publication History:

Blue Unicorn — Winter 2004

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desert song

The desert is an endless source of poetic inspiration. Here is a tanka to the deserts of Southern Nevada and California.

desert song

This poem has been published in my book an inkling hope: select poems, available in Kindle and paperback formats. Out of consideration for those who have purchased a copy, I have removed it from this post and online viewing in general.

Publication History:

Blackmail Press (web-based) — Spring 2006

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Pulp

Psychology has its merits—That is when the psychologist is knowledgeable, experienced, and compassionate. But, to my mind, psychiatry has very few merits, no matter how well-intentioned its practitioners may be. I have watched the infusion of psychiatric drugs destroy the minds of those around me, and it has also destroyed most of what potential I was born with and began to develop as a child.

Very, very few losses inflict as much pain and despair as the loss of ones own potential. I know. So, thinking such thoughts, I found myself writing this poem, my 13th terzanelle.

Pulp

they made his mind a molding mess
a slow and solemn nest of thought
a brooding storm of deep distress

confusion ruled his darkened heart
enraged at what his mind became
a slow and solemn nest of thought

as reason weakened and decayed
he bashed his limbs and tore his flesh
enraged at what his mind became

his anguish flared a bitter flame
when it would surge with burning force
he bashed his limbs and tore his flesh

he wished for death with yearnings fierce
a wish he never could perform
when it would surge with burning force

he longed to leave his broken form
destroyed by psychiatric drugs
a wish he never could perform

the poisons flowed within his blood
they made his mind a molding mess
destroyed by psychiatric drugs
a brooding storm of deep distress

Publication History:

The Awakenings Review — Summer 2007

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Presence

For most of my life I have felt a presence, always near. And though I have never heard its voice, I can sometimes feel its influence on my thoughts. I’ve often thought that it could be an angel. This, my 11th villanelle, reflects upon this lifelong presence and its influence on my existence.

Presence

A gentle guiding whisper touched my mind,
Behind the din and chaos, where subtle voices speak,
And counseled with a wisdom firm and kind.

Although I faced the world without a friend,
Among the thronging masses, alone within my grief,
A gentle guiding whisper touched my mind.

A being came from somewhere far beyond,
Beyond this realm of vision, a place we cannot see,
And counseled with a wisdom firm and kind.

My heart was pulled to view the spaces grand,
Where filled with awe I trembled, while always there unseen,
A gentle guiding whisper touched my mind.

Where dreams and waking vision merge and blend
A shade has often offered encouragement discreet
And counseled with a wisdom firm and kind.

I ventured far and wide a vagabond,
And when I ached with hunger or shivered in the breeze,
A gentle guiding whisper touched my mind
And counseled with a wisdom firm and kind.

Publication History:

One-In-Four — May 2004

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Aeolian Strains

There is a real live aeolian harp about smack in the middle of New Mexico. I saw a picture of it online some years ago, and in 2004 decided it was time to go visit this living art piece. It was conceptualized and built by a medical doctor turned astronomer, Bill Neely, and his friend Bob Griesing, during June and July of 2000. The owners of the Traditions Shopping Center in the Mimbres Valley commissioned its construction and installation, and not long after they let it fall into disrepair.

It may just be a thing of metal to most, but to me anything that harnesses the wind or manifests music is itself alive, and this does both. And not just alive, but conscious and life-affirming. It was a sad thing for me to find it there, like a wounded animal, still facing the sand-blown wind to play its injured song.

A week after I visited this neglected oracle in January of 2004, I found myself writing this poem, my 10th terzanelle, in Flagstaff, Arizona where I was waylaid on my way back home by a nasty cold.

Aeolian Strains

Neglected with a broken string, the harp turns toward the wind,
And plays the subtle song of distant desert moods;
A song that’s lost amid the sound of reckless worldly din.

This singing weather-vane, the song of which would soothe,
Stands in a field of novelties, an oracle ignored,
And plays the subtle song of distant desert moods.

An art piece with a living soul, from mystic magic born,
The voice of whispered dreams, harmonic and serene,
Stands in a field of novelties, an oracle ignored.

In random moments brief, the mad rush grants reprieve,
Enough to hear the vibrant strings exhale with gentle breath
The voice of whispered dreams, harmonic and serene.

Or, gusts are sprung upon the chords that bring a bold caress,
Where heavy song is raised in timbres manifold,
Enough to hear the vibrant strings exhale with gentle breath.

She’s like a fallen angel, lamenting all alone—
Neglected with a broken string, the harp turns toward the wind,
Where heavy song is raised in timbres manifold,
A song that’s lost amid the sound of reckless worldly din.

Publication History:

Illuminations — Spring 2005

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Culture

I thought I would try building a metaphor for modern American culture. The decaying hull of a scrapped ship seemed appropriate. And so my 10th villanelle.

Culture

This poem has been published in my book an inkling hope: select poems, available in Kindle and paperback formats. Out of consideration for those who have purchased a copy, I have removed it from this post and online viewing in general.

Publication History:

The Alchemy Post (web-based) — November 2005

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Cloud

This poem, my 7th villanelle, is inspired by the visual and psycho-spiritual effects of cloudscapes moving up the canyon where I live in Brooktrails, near Willits, California. The clouds rise up the canyon all the way from Willits, which is 10 some odd miles away. They phase through tall redwoods and bold madronas as they obscure plots and houses in heavy shifting mists that reveal and reconceal a hidden world of thought and green.

Cloud

This poem has been published in my book an inkling hope: select poems, available in Kindle and paperback formats. Out of consideration for those who have purchased a copy, I have removed it from this post and online viewing in general. However, the above player can still be used to listen to it.

Publication History:

The Lyric — Spring 2004

Illuminations — Spring 2005

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Path by Moon

Inspired by my many full moon walks in the Montgomery Woods, a State Nature Reserve of old growth redwoods about 30 miles west of Ukiah, California, this poem—my 4th villanelle—invites you to leave the wide and beaten path to venture into the mystic unknown of personal exploration. This “path by moon” is a metaphor for the discovery and pursuit of ones own unique path in life.

Path by Moon

This poem has been published in my book an inkling hope: select poems, available in Kindle and paperback formats. Out of consideration for those who have purchased a copy, I have removed it from this post and online viewing in general. However, the above player can still be used to listen to it.

Publication History:

Zephyr (web-based) — May 2004

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Moonpines

After nearly a year of spending most full moons deep in the Montgomery Woods, a State Nature Reserve of old growth coastal redwoods about 30 miles west of Ukiah, California, I felt compelled to dedicate a poem to my experiences therein. One peculiar trait of a forest of old growth redwoods during a full moon is the tendency for one among the towering ranks to fall entirely in the path of moonlight. It only lasts for a few moments to a few minutes, but the effect is absolutely striking, echoing deep into the psyche for all time. This is my 8th terzanelle.

Moonpines

         Montgomery Woods at Full Moon
            Mendocino County, CA
                Winter, Spring and Summer of 2003

Gently gleaming from shadowed depths, a single pillar shines,
Held in place by the full moon’s gaze, suspended on the night;
Bold within the enshrouded gloom, the silent moonbeam climbs.

Vaulted high into moonstone heights, both bark and bough alike
Etch mosaics of subtle hue in countless shapes and shades,
Held in place by the full moon’s gaze, suspended on the night.

Shifting softly with light subdued, the moon with traces vague
Brushes ever so faint the forms where rays, diffuse and dim,
Etch mosaics of subtle hue in countless shapes and shades.

Slowly walking, devoid of thought, low glimmers skim the skin,
Moonlight faint as a whisper’s breath, with tingle and tickle touch,
Brushes ever so faint the forms where rays diffuse and dim.

Sitting down where the wood is deep amid the moonshade hush,
Downy zephyrous breezes join the opal-toned caress,
Moonlight faint as a whisper’s breath with tingle and tickle touch.

Sudden, deep in the patterned depths one massive tree is blessed,
Caught entranced by the moon’s embrace, and all my heart is thrilled;
Downy zephyrous breezes join the opal-toned caress.

Here my spirit escapes the mind and laves in peace until
Gently gleaming from shadowed depths, a single pillar shines,
Caught entranced by the moon’s embrace, and all my heart is thrilled;
Bold within the enshrouded gloom, the silent moonbeam climbs.

Publication History:

Blackmail Press (web-based) — Spring 2006

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Vapors

She inspired many poems from me during the time I knew her. This is probably among the best of them.

Vapors

This poem has been published in my book an inkling hope: select poems, available in Kindle and paperback formats. Out of consideration for those who have purchased a copy, I have removed it from this post and online viewing in general.

This is my 122nd ghazal.

Publication History:

Muse Apprentice Guild (web-based) — Fall 2003

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Blast

As destruction was rained down upon Iraq during America’s invasion and occupation the region, I couldn’t help but wonder how many utterly innocent lives were completely destroyed by the carnage.

Blast

Misguided angels struck them on their beauteous heights,
Then rotting frames collapsed in flames from carious heights.

Demons vie for rights to control and destroy the masses,
Commanding herds to slaughter from their devious heights.

Sheets of fire consume in the name of good intention;
A rain of steel tears homes apart from dubious heights.

Huddled against fierce wind and cold on the mountain slopes
Refugees watch their cities burn from various heights.

A wide-eyed child points toward flares and thunderous sounds;
His blood-caked mother cries beneath the furious heights.

Seekers of emptiness fall into abysmal depths;
Seekers of fullness fall flailing from hideous heights.

The simple answer stares the world in the face each day;
Seek neither deep and fetid pits nor glorious heights.

With half the world besieged, Zahhar, by war and famine,
How did you come to live amid such bounteous heights?

This is my 116th ghazal.

Publication History:

Muse Apprentice Guild (web-based) — Fall 2003