A Child Was Washed Ashore Dead. A path through the shrine woods. A story I wrote in the sky. Dreamy sound of rain in June. Focused on the soft sound of rain. I was once sweet seven-teen. Let God be the judge of all things. Out for an evening walk. The soundless music of night. Too early for the lotus. 70 Years Ago, the War Ended.

If your life is burning, then poetry is just the ash. Friday, May 3, 2013. The gentle tides have led me back to mellow shores. Where I can live and breed in unforcing times,. Through love and friends and the pleasure. And with two feet on the welcomed ground,. My eyes shall stare at the waves and the ships,. And the drowning, the swimmers and the drowned,. Uncomfortable, desperate, but living through their time.

Reflections, of sorts, in verse, of sorts. At the jigsaw puzzle factory. She shakes from her clothes. Patterned with pleated lines and trimmed. Beneath the weight of winter. The way your eyes soared. And shake into our night. A drum of white fire.

Enter your email address to subscribe to this blog and receive notifications of new posts by email. Join 7,340 other followers. It was several hours before anyone found the body of the gardener. Where to, love? .

Thoughts from the author of Trailer Park Juggernauts. What was I supposed to do? All I had were twenties. Should I have given him one? Should I have used my money to contribute to the track marks on his arm as opposed to feeding my family? Should I have gotten out and confronted him? Should I have destroyed his face with my fist? My words deserted me. The light turned green and I drove away regretting my five dollar loss.

The poet formerly known as Retkon. The poet formerly known as retkon. A poem my posture,. Dress codes of bygones,. Not the man she would. Too young to die but.

Of the space between us. The green patina of sarcasm. Reduced to a mere photograph. Why did you build that bomb. The one that divided us. A mushroom cloud of discontent. Turning two into too many nights. Alone and cold in the dark. I tried to seek a sign up above. Past an endless sky without light. Finally I ask myself am I the one. Am I jealous of the space between us. Of the fragile photograph kept under glass. Was it me who built that bomb.

And we shed our last. A piece of her soul. As she dips her nib. It was good to practise.