Wild Bloom

be like raindrops
by dry earth,
as wild flower
and be
by the scent of it,
the lush of it,
fall back
into fields
of the decadent
that swallows
our thoughts and the time
in this high untamed
at summertime’s end,
every last petal
of riotous blue
to the black earth
that beckons
all back
to the soil
your barefooted


Three Poems

Thick summer, ripe                           with stories,
with cherries, bodies                        on the news,
slow and sultry like                           violence, insidious as
a warm breeze moving                     our subconscious heavy
through branches bowed                 with the weight of it, we numb
with dusty wine                                 our thoughts, even as we reach for
plums and apple                               stems not yet ripe and crave
beginnings, green                             sweetnesses of life, not bullets like
hummingbirds buzzing                      broken streets and our psyches.  We are hungry
for fruit in all stages,                          for resolution, tasting their answers,
from sour to sweet,                           from truth to lie,
under a high July                               this planet spinning beneath the
sunshine where time                         talking, ticking like a bomb that
slows to nothing,                               shatters again and again,
and everything                                   everything
is changing                                        is struggling for light.

A Straight Up No Reason Joy Kind of Day

Sure, we got
ice cream
and chased
in the grass,
sang songs
so loud
in public,
you covered
my mouth,
but really
what it be,
is the long-
dawned, drawn
out days of
summer spent
in the company
of those who
are smaller
and seeing
things from a
low down
kind of view
that makes
every type of
same old thing
that much more
on a sunshine,
school’s out,
nothing left
to do but
smile and see
the sunset
kind of day.