Reading Rilke’s Book of Hours Upon Awakening During an Early Morning Freeze

Your poetry begets music, but only to the poor. The poor hear each note of hunger upon their wanderings; whether city, or fields, or highways off the desert roads, the poor shall always hear these tattered tunes laying threadbare, frayed at the heel of existence. Your Russian journeys lead you to God, unbeknownst, an intimate … Continue reading Reading Rilke’s Book of Hours Upon Awakening During an Early Morning Freeze

Reading Rita Dove’s Boccaccio: The Plague Years

Each day, each night, upon the southern island that reaches out to the Gulf of Mexico, the clapboard beach houses raise their tunes of flying fish, slapping hard upon the water’s edge. I was two, perhaps, younger. My memory slips into a time of a golden astonishment, white sand that stings as a round, translucent … Continue reading Reading Rita Dove’s Boccaccio: The Plague Years

Reading Rita Dove at Sunrise

Pacing, as a hummingbird spins her wings and tiny frame, not frantic, but gracefully as Paavo Oso and his art, staring impassive to his muse, what shall ruminating speak this time?                                                             Seven A.M. The canvas still clean. Once upon a time… he felt the lascivious rage within his rags, threads reaching to the sky … Continue reading Reading Rita Dove at Sunrise

A Heart with Many Rooms

From the heart remain many rooms                         As lightning fingers from God Singing different melodies                         For love unearned, I cannot explain, nor comprehend its depths, But as I feel, I know Of many hearts along the way                         A separate happiness each note shall play. Please, speak to the eyes             … Continue reading A Heart with Many Rooms


Fragments of broken glass             this room’s dimensional windows a stone’s throw away, living on the edge too long.                                                             Silence dances in darkness through an altered state. voices, a regimented life!             Toy soldiers living not in dreams but regimes.                                                             I stand, inhaling plumes amid cumulous vapors             an air sifting … Continue reading Fragmented