Labor of the Heart

A labor of the heart

Is fickle for breaks time may yet impart;

Yet hearts all given up to labor

May find that flesh bears yet no flavor

Such that withered bones

Gilded on those rusted thrones

Reach evermore for other’s flames

To find the hearth within lies tamed.

No soul, within mortality leashed

Can ill afford to rush time’s feast.

Ours may yet be to wonder why,

But think too long and there you’ll lie.

Life’s purpose is the lurking feeling

That man must find his own life’s meaning.


Pleiades Star Cluster

(Photo credit: Wikipedia)

It begins with the stars. Man spreads his wings and the stars are all that consumes. Blue fire–they taste the ashes and name them future as they step into the black expanse.

It begins with the warmth. The floor is around and under and in them, and the soil even deeper still, and the taste of dirt between the rolls of steam-cleaned lines cracks the boundaries. They feel themselves against it, and floatin away, and there is only the bliss of self, wrapped in their own wings. Stars! They feel the stars upon their skin, in burst and waves of flame, and they never feel more human than…

The cold, it is the descent. Weightless beyond the starlight, there comes the reality that they cannot reach so far. Fingernails snap under the weight of their broken-hearted deam, the reality that they are watched. All eyes, but no faces to commit. Others roll to the same tune and they are locked in orbit–not of space, or time, but themseles, unable to collide, yet cracked all the same.

Orgasms would not suffice to caintain the repture of that neutron burst, when the flesh parts and the body simply…drifts. A floor, yes, there is ground but there is also the Expanse, and they know what it is to be a part and apart two entities, indivisible yet incomprehensible, with knowing the great beast between them.

The impact with the self is reality’s jolt, the crash that makes it all numb again. There are eyes, then a body, and a taste–salt and chill, the air that has lived to see the beginning and the end of all things.

Bright is the chill. Deep is the waking.

He knows. He will forget. But the bodies at his feet–these he will remember. Until they wake.

Words–they fail before the frame.

The taste of earth remains upon the fettered tongue. And still–the sweat.

A Gambol Song

Beneath our hungry shore

between life and grass

more skin blossoms.

Leap off moon–

man is wild,

a gambol


* My latest submission for the great gathering of international poets known as One Shot Wednesday. Short but sweet, and more than little cooky to more than a few of you, I’m sure, I give unto you “A Gambol Song”, my latest bit of free verse.

The All-Song

Beneath the microscope

metaphysics sang,

the organism of



shameless self

altered secretless

wisdoms in non-judgment

to the scope of everything.

* My latest contribution to the wonderful One Shot Poetry Wednesdays! Once you’ve had a look, check out some of the other One Shot Poets as well–they’re a skilled bunch of poets, with a strong and supportive community.  Enjoy! And while you’re at it – vote for us in the Shorty Awards…we have a chance to take Number 1 in Art!

The Oak

Alone, standing, oaken life take root

the wood gnarls as branches stretch,

the colored leaves fall down, down

and the moss hangs down, down

bent, twisted, craven mass of limbs.

I stand, wondering how this, alone, might stir and how the

—limbs, reaching, have no other limbs to twine,

I touch, and I consider wood-borne genocide, this rough

—bark grating on my fingers,

but the bough yields and the leaves descend,

and I, standing here alone, am left to ponder

how colorless the world can be

with one life, one love, and none to share it,

and I think it is no wonder this solitary thing

sets to wilting in the chill.

* My latest contribution to the wonderful One Shot Poetry Wednesdays! Once you’ve had a look, check out some of the other One Shot Poets as well– they’re a skilled bunch of poets, looking to form a community and support one another.  Enjoy!

Elemental Elation

Bear me up

Rustling cavalcade of coalescing

Music rush, on tempo speed

These breaths across my skin.

The harmony

Of your exultation

Gives me strength

Beneath my wings.

Crystal flow

Caress and coax

The resolution of my being,

Dive down into the deep.

Crash upon

The shores of apathy

And stir upon us yet the storms

That break inequity.


Quivering motions elate

To find the kiss, the touch of motion

In the sensuous sway of your dance.

No hands

Could ever hold thy hips

This beat, thunder of thy solitary

Moment, unbidden.


Rampart revelry of life

Shield yet the passions of hope,

A dream of majesty.


Mother-being enfold

The world in thy being:

Ground this flighty soul.

* For the latest Monday Poetry Potluck!

In My Arms

These hands are not my hands,

How could they be

Baby blue, holding you

Swaddled, unmoved—

The wind was yours to claim,

I saw it, this past

Flowing reality of moments undone,

Webbing through existence see

You run, you sing

Let the ground give

Let the earth quake

And all rejoice, your howl

Resonant rebound through vibrant fields

Life, how I saw thee fly—

Impossible to reconcile

This motionless reality

To the beauty of my memory:

Where do you sleep?