Summer Rain

there’s a sharp,
seductive shiver running
seamlessly in and out of my
shockwave hydro-kinetic
theory of how
to live.
there, within the
tapestry of
thunderclouds and ornament,
lives the pulse of my
existence-
let’s run, far,
far away until
we don’t need to pray
anymore for the faint
speckled brush of wind on
my fingertips to cause the sky to
divide and the heavens to yearn
for freedom.

cascade, cascade,
redeem me of mercy.
rumble through
twilight and morning
deceits,
take me and clothe me
with riverbed
tide-pools and salt water
born of September and promises
of a sweet, distant June.

drench my defenses
‘till every last oak-hewn
golden-age frigate melts
fluently like weather-worn
aquamarine abandoned in the height
of proverbial April


i drift, head aching for
depths where the sun hides,
surf and sea and plumes of sublime
rush and rise and undulate
over and under my frame,
enveloping the very essence
of azure and diamond
and the spirit
of miracles,
and with a cry of
a siren and a gale of canvass
and morning-dew clover,
i more than release into
harmony.

maybe in the morning
i’ll race the sun back up to the
sky.

the rain might be over by then.

Road to Corinth

Today, I part from Ithaca,
With starlight caught in Byzantine,
I keep it caged in river-sage,
And lamps of spice and kerosene,

I make my way beneath a sun,
Of miracles and meadow-lea,
To give me joy, I may employ,
The shadow of a cypress tree,

And far beyond the ocean spray,
The sands with sea-glass heavens meet,
And gilded oar converging shore,
They bathe me in the salts of Crete,

The clouds themselves have never seen,
In all their days of chasing vice,
The seamless, flaxen, sandstone sheen,
Of voyaging through paradise

Overlook on Propsect Hill

it took me three years
and the stench of whiskey
to comprehend our position here
on prospect hill.

if you ask me, we’ve been thundering
for springtime for far too long.
the forces of
aptitude are reducing our spirits
to fire and candle wax
and I haven’t yearned for rain
this much since the day i
stole the pastor’s hat.
but don’t ask me,
i’ll keep to myself.

last evening i wrote to the
love of my life,
who should be at home and asleep
in a cream-lace cradle out
in virginia.
i figure she’ll never know,
since i drenched it in bourbon
and their runner lies sleeping
in the fog.

have you ever really noticed the moon?
i wonder-
the milkweed they have here
pierces so high the
Georgian midnight
but the stars themselves
keep from blushing.
a flush of red would do some good-
there’s a dull sheen of river lilies
glancing past the horizon,
and a bleeding heart only
shows that you’re alive.

Glass Half Full

‘Twas ages past and moonbeams last,
Your lips convened with mine,
And overthrown from gilded throne,
My heart had soured to wine,

It seeped into my sensory,
In crimson-scarlet hue,
With vineyard eyes poised to the skies,
My thoughts returned to you,

And, skin a midnight burgundy,
I wished upon a star,
That not for thrill, you’d love me still,
This man of pinot noir,

But as I went to kiss you,
I stood helpless and agape,
For though my lips proved strong with spirit,
Yours remained of grape

Awake and Alive

I’ve set ablaze the open seas,
I’ve suffered shores that few have kissed,
I’ve plucked the figs of Galilee,
And made my way through morning mist,

With eyes that glow and tears that stain,
I’ve scraped the skies of Sicily,
And waltzing to the moons refrain,
Shared sunrise with a lilac tree,

I wallow now in vast expanse,
And sift through time spent long ago,
I left for the place where the angels dance,
Then realized how I love you so

Charioteer

I dreamed beneath a speckled sky,
That Great Apollo came to me,
And with a host of fireflies,
He shimmered through my apathy,
And threw his reigns upon my spine,
Which therefore sprouted wings of gold,
With silver drapes and linen fine,
My story ventured to unfold,
I chase the starlight past the dawn,
I savor warmth when thunders clear,
And reminisce on summers gone,
Then make my way as charioteer

County Wicklow, Ireland

A thick host of heather kissed close by the weather,
Whose plum-cherry harmonies bloom with the wind,
A wild-berry cedar or peregrine feather,
A sober repentance of that to be sinned,
A mug of emotion, a honey-gold ocean,
A sprinkling of lavender, bushels of thyme,
A scarlet bouquet of the sun on a hilltop,
A wildflower meadow of reason and rhyme-

-A pocket of thunderclouds, handfuls of dew,
These are the jewels I have gathered for you