Friday, January 27, 2017

mother once blue

i have fallen
on red dirt -

did i come from here?
is this my origin or is it my fantasy?

i see a face carved out of sand
it can not speak

are you my mother?
is this my mirage of mourning?

truth is silenced by an aftermath
and lies are silenced in the aftermath
and dirt is dust and sand is red

i cry here but ears do not exist
and there are not eyes to see me

loneliness does not exist
except in tears that remain
fading into the red

where (I) i does not exist

neither my mother once blue


I fully support the #MarchforScience for the sake of our planet, our mother and all her life forms...bkm


Monday, January 9, 2017


I hold the pigment of my skin
in a cup bowled
and full
the rain subsides
      and I am clean
there is room for words
and wallpapered
       windows of drought

(seeking) see-ing

     (the art of not giving a shit)
breathe once
breathe once
sip and sound the rounded cup
I am full
     the rain ends
I hold my skin
all color absent
   and I breathe once
         abstaining from all graces
     once more in faith I write
on the walls standing
beside me
I am clean
   and the sound of rain
2017 (copyrighted)

Friday, December 23, 2016

cities (i.) (ii.)


we crawl between paper and railing
secrets of length
ripped open by rain          acid of tears
falling to flesh
                   falling to rain

rain swallowed  
        gutter to     drain

lights of the city
           vibrant and new
place object to window
           lined in grace

dances of freedom
            exquisite spacing of step
       passing and pausing
beauty well spent

the keeping of secrets
contained in the wine
merlot of the moment
        brings warmth to the soul

as flesh melts into dark
     in the corner of promise and pain

between paper and rail
between paper and rain


not New York

used jewels hang from
        aged pubic hair
elevators reveal more than
       mirrored caviar and quantity

points accumulate

street corner drugs
offer aspirin and condom
         street lights
offer repentance and reprieve

this is not New York
this is not Paris or London
this our daily bread gone underground

money and merchants
       change hands in the black

   no free pass to heaven
its points we lack

2016 (copyrighted)

Thursday, December 22, 2016

other than white

in the ginger
of morning
i catch snow on my tongue
taste the stillness
of light at the edge of a wood

as winter takes breath
to cradle life in a blanket held white
held white and wide
in the course of my sight

it, natures communion
takes precedent over warm and constant
and that which i receive
lips can hardly reveal

not in word
not in tongue
spoken or scribed, nor

in earthly creation
other than white

2016 (copyrighted)

photo by Karen Callan