Wilderness

It’s true, she loves the river And its steady constant force The ocean is just leftovers And she prefers the source   She leads me through the briars Stinging nettle, oak, and sorrow Some pain for the present moment But the rest we’ll save for tomorrow   The path is narrow and overgrown If it’s even a path at all Two roads diverged and we took neither She heard the river’s call   Down the...

There was a song my father sang Not really a song at all Just a rhythm of syllables Rising and falling With every step And a pause with Every breath   There were never any words Neither for the song itself Nor for the way It brings me home   It would often be sung Out in the wilderness Surrounded by wonders Sometimes emerging From an ice cold pool Formed by a beaver dam In...

What day is it now? How long has it been? I miss my lover and my friend And while I know that it’s not quite really a sin I’ve now fallen in love With a very light wind Someone to speak with This breeze she is mine We’ll speak with each other And we’ll speak in rhyme While my body’s become A negative space Where flesh used to be And what once had a face...

His auto-biography written on a storm that seemed like it would never end.   So he learned to accept the shivering soaking that followed whenever he stepped out of the shelter he’d built in his old broken heart.   Its walls are made of driftwood. Branches and limbs from long dead trees relinquished from the higher hills a long time ago.   Discarded ideas of the future that this storm ripped from their roots and...

I was just a young word that meant “monkey” In a beautiful terrible word that meant “jungle” Under the dome of a bright blue sky From which the eagle dipped down And rose again with monkey in its claw Beside a crystal clear river Full of a certain monkey-devouring fish Beneath the soaring green tree With branch made of venomous snake And limb full of golden chimpanzee Those greedy thieves they were mean And one...

We lived like kings upon the earth Our castles made from the remains Of giants slain On the higher mountains   The weary travelers wander by on the path They carry almost nothing These ascetic wanderers With fancy European gear And so little of it at that You have to wonder Why do they deprive themselves so? What sins are they trying to atone for?   We arrived here ages ago Or maybe just days...