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  • Dateless Lively Heat Still To Endure

    September 21, 2026
    Poetry


           This ground..

    an uneven place

    Near the mountain

    Jagged rocks like teeth

    Naked

    Scarred and scorched

    Soaks up the drought

    Though all is still, 

    all moves

    See those clouds above the mountain?

    Like memories

    When we walk here, we must dance

    With careful choreography

    past and present

    Or fall, still, still, still

    –

    Remember?

    The boys in the neighborhood

    Smashing my face into the ground

    Pounding me into the dirt

    Searching to find whatever

    Wounds I owned

    Or could offer up.

    I looked at the powder on my hands

    Scuffs, reddened with red streaks and

    The brown stuff of soil.

    They kneed me in the back

    Spitting on what must have appeared

    To them, a stiff unliving body

    A shape familiar to them

    –

    Then on some other day

    When my curly hair shined

    kissed me

    With candy breaths

    And bacon and egg lives

    As if nothing had ever transpired

    As if time did not exist

    As if memories were lost

    As if the earth would dance

    Like a child

    heal itself

    As all believed it would

    If left to its own ways

    –

    August is crueler than April

    Bare ground reveals

    Dryness, truths, & harshness

    the collective abjective gait

    Our gangly limbs move

    gather, acquire. 

    “You know now, you understand

    That’s the way you’re supposed to walk.”

    And this haze, this smoke

    From the myriad fires 

    we kindle

    We nurse

    We attend to

    Creeps into our lungs

    “Oh, do not ask what is it”

    Etherizes everyone

    Into a dull wade

    through shallow air.

    And

    Thick late summer 

    only promises

    An upcoming layer of snow

    Prayers to western rivers

    –

    And while dancing

    In this present or past

    I turn my palms upwards

    Blood and dirt and all

    feeling the sun’s heat

    Scraping the surface

    Like a reader of braille 

    On its way to its most

    orange of hues, setting

    on hills

    The wavy horizons of

    our furthest view

    Wandering in sober desire

    To be filled In,

    by night..

                    A night…

                                    Any night

    Cobalt to licorice

    –

    Then

    To the cool morning

    Speaking

    with eloquence, still

    Still, still

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  • The Face of Blankness

    June 29, 2026
    Poetry


    This morning, the tide is hidden. Only its call is heard from out a smear of pastel white. In the face of this blankness, desire attempts to burn off the marine layer. Still, the smell of salt and sea linger and the curve of the earth (only the ocean can reveal) is never silent.

    Photograph by me! Last summer on the coast.
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  • The Sky, Interrupted

    May 18, 2026
    Poetry
    There’s a coolness hanging low in this air and her face hides behind a blur of gray. These mists have a language, a silent movement, present and past intertwined, both moving, source and echo. Their chatter, a cloak, conceals sky and edges of definition. Until I make it over her shoulder, a mountain pass. The mists let go and her silhouette interrupts the blue. Ground as dusty as summer, on the edge of dry pines, timberline only a touch away. 
    Near the trailhead.
    Looking west, as I leave the lake behind.
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  • Addicted to Burning

    May 4, 2026
    Poetry
    Above, only the clouds seem to move. Here, on this ground, dampness hangs upon the forest. Inside there is a small circle, a scar, a mix of rough and smooth, a bareness like a graveyard where ghost trees stand like giant bones, whitened, still hanging onto their grain, exposed–waiting for the healing of seasons, the rains, the snows, the sun, while settled inside a plan of what is wild and what is not.


    How this image was created
    This is a low resolution photo taken at sunrise featuring a treeline and sky. The photo was printed and placed underneath a partially frozen plate of water. A high resolution image was taken of that then cropped.

    Latest Published Work found at https://www.thewordsfaire.com/issue-i

    16 comments on Addicted to Burning
  • The Old Wardrobe

    March 30, 2026
    Poetry
    Those old dresses…
    what you once wore and how you wore them, how you fit into things, the way they felt. There was the comfortable one and the one you had to wear on certain, special occasions. Now, just familiar strangers.
    That old blouse that used to be your favorite, cream colored but had that small speck, a stain you hid under a button, a brooch, or a sweater. If it was noticed, you had a few stories prepared. You had to have reasons ready.
    There’s the old coat with that inner lining you replaced, hemmed twice, but it kept fraying. It had such raw edges like a fringe. If the weather warmed, you had to carry it on your arm and it became a small burden. On those days, you asked yourself why you brought it in the first place. It was like two dresses sewn together when you only paid for one.
    On the bottom shelf of the old wardrobe, there's a newspaper lining. It's torn and faded, the type nearly gone. Within its mess of creases, folds, and holes you barely make out a number followed by the words killed in action. As you decide which clothes to keep and which ones to discard, you think about lining the bottom shelf with something different, something without ink…
    this time.

    Photo by me.
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  • Visiting the Winter Garden

    February 23, 2026
    Poetry
    The rose garden is built up of paddy-like fields, levels of flower beds featuring various cultivars. Perched on the side of a forest hill, the garden overlooks the city. The wind hangs onto its cold bite, though winter’s mask begins to melt, revealing scuffs and wounds in the tender ground. A few Lenten roses are in bloom and there is a surprise mist. It smells of new rain and water beads lie upon handrails. The colors of the garden are mixed with grays. Thorns twist their way between chunks of wet bark dust near black in color and the cold grass is as green as spring. Here, not long ago, when warmth lingered, hands were held during walks, marriage vows exchanged, and secrets told. Now, there’s only the sound of a leaf blower and the faint tapping of a runner’s shoes upon cement. 
    The city below pokes its skyline out of rain clouds. When the clouds lift, a mountain stands in the distance. You can see it above the city from the garden glowing, reflecting the sunset, a soft pink. Memories of music and voices are caught within its silence. I try to listen.
    The city between the mountain and the garden has its share of pain and privilege. I am found as you are, somewhere between both. There’s an amalgam of perceptions written into its streets trailing off (seemingly) with a dash stroke by a pen. No periods necessary. Images don’t need them. Thoughts are thorns and blooms.
    I see another winter rose.
    The leaf blower moves further away singing in waves of crescendo/decrescendo. A distant drone, strangely comforting.

    Recently published work

    South Florida Poetry Journal – https://www.southfloridapoetryjournal.com/special-section-26.html

    Juste Milieu Zine Issue 19 – https://heyzine.com/flip-book/a8b8d0008b.html

    5 comments on Visiting the Winter Garden
  • Ice Storm

    January 26, 2026
    Poetry
    You look at me as only a face
    A weakness, caught mute behind a smile
    Deaf to the humming inside me
    That shakes with the noisiest silence
    In the form of a life, a thought, a hope, a desire
    A song you have known
    Perhaps forgotten, forced to ignore
    This vibration is not only inside me
    But a tremor running through all our fault lines

    You walk past me down cold streets
    As if maddened, a fear
    In your eyes
    Repeating what has been recited
    An instruction, an ideal, a myth
    I then transform…into
    A stranger, a wanderer
    Walking towards you
    That is when the weather
    Takes my song away
    The storm strangles me
    In this street, my street
    Full of wind and gusts

    Is it that you are bored of peace?
    That you must rebuild, rename, revert
    Without regard and respect of sovereignty
    And soul, the soil we share
    To reshape me, erase me, regardless
    Of our old roots that once intertwined
    Peace to you is just someone’s else’s prize to own
    And me, with only my hands
    To shape the outlines of life
    Humane, our humanity, our blood and bone

    Can’t you hear me at work?
    While you treat me with this suspicion
    Grown inside your gut
    I sculpt
    Asking only that you look at
    The art of our likeness.
    Ice formation. My image.
    13 comments on Ice Storm
  • Reading The Early Winter

    November 24, 2025
    Poetry
    The water is cold near this spring and I watch the first flakes of late autumn snow land on tree branches. The flakes form a textured coating resembling an artist’s touch. They fall like ashes playing amongst a thick mist hugging the forest. The mountain is somewhere behind these trees, somewhere behind these foothills. 
    Wild mist is elusive, skittish, a feral kind of weather with no city lights to reflect the symmetry of urban yellows, greens, and reds. The mist fools you into believing this stream does not follow a path of least resistance, but it does, even if it looks like it’s wandering, like a fragment, a lost sentence the mountain has thrown down upon uneven parchment.
    Soon the snow will cover everything, branches will be weighed down and the only thing seen is the creek slicing its way through white.
    I cup my hands, holding fingers together…tight. There’s a seam where they meet, one hand layered over the other.
    Images by me.
    To be Published Schedule
    Rooted Literary Magazine - 12-31-2025
    Juste Milieu - Issue 19 - 2 Items! Winter 2025
    Press Pause Press - Volume 13 - Fall of 2026

    Published
    Muse-Pie Press - Issue #52 Fall 2025 https://www.musepiepress.com/

    19 comments on Reading The Early Winter
  • November

    November 3, 2025
    Poetry

    Watching November. Stories of leaves and lives, the paths of weather and wind. The naming of storms as they move across oceans. Characterized. Rummaging inside the stories, among their array, thoughts detained by tracking their descents, following the arc of their flaws. Outside, the leaves are in wet piles, soon to be gathered up in a blend of red and gold from clutter to compost. There is no catharsis here. Only fiction contains them. The blue jay parents who caused such a fuss protecting their young last spring are still around. Quiet now. One of them still tilts her head, listening.

    Blue Season. An unfinished project of mine.

    You can find my recently published Fibonacci poem on Muse-Pie Press. Just follow this link –https://www.musepiepress.com/fibreview/index.html

    Upcoming art to be published in the winter issue of Juste Milieu Zine.

    16 comments on November
  • What Singing Knows

    October 28, 2025
    Poetry
    Rain falls hard 
    Upon paved cities of fortune
    Dressed in gowns of glass.
    Once she had thought cities held melodies
    That singers know.

    Now that she has sang
    Her throat seems parched
    Yet melodies still pour
    From lung and breath
    And her heart
    Looks in upon itself
    Even if only as metaphor.

    Lazy Concrete – Image is mine as all of them are. Click on image to enlarge.

    Upcoming publishing schedule

    • Juste Milieu Zine – Winter Issue
    • Muse-Pie Press – https://www.musepiepress.com/fibreview/index.html

    8 comments on What Singing Knows
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