Category Archives: The Abstract


The poetry of freedom ripples; a thing-in-motion (like laughter) an unrepentant elegance, yes a wise extravagance that will find lilies even in times (especially in times) — when there is no bread.

Forgotten Promises

The poetry of forgotten promises belongs to night. Someone sews lights on the hillside like sequins. So many glittering eyes accuse you of squandering time. An old pledge stands forlorn on the outskirts of memory. Like abandoned tower. The stars have refused to come out and take your side and a silvercoin moon has been tossed in the sky to decide what happens next. (You will be given another chance…don’t blow it.)


The poetry of solitude presses against bare skin like stethoscope, earns a living listening for beat of hidden heart in things. All day all night, rivers run through body, whispering important secrets. No such thing as too busy (you are only too lazy or too afraid) to pay attention.  But one day on a windy shore you will lean to pick up loneliness. Like conch shell cradle it to ear; hear the wide blue roar within.


The poetry of loneliness is a game of hide-and-seek. Ready or not here it comes finding you in the most unexpected of places. To reset the game run when caught. If you’re tired stop and listen. Loneliness is a messenger from an inner country whose contours you know like the shape of your room in the dark. It can be trusted like a difficult teacher can be wrapped like a cool shawl around your person. Sit still long enough and  something sacred will start to warm you from within.


The poetry of feather is weightless whisper smooth against cheek. A singular sleek caress. Feather sings of bird and all that flies beyond the deciduous particulars of plumage. Wingspan dawnsong glittereyes sharpbeak lightbone and swiftness. Which of these alone is bird? Love is a coalescing defying dissection. Transcendent assembly of bewitching detail that conjures up more than the sum of its feathers every time.


The poetry of acceptance is the poetry of the monk’s bowl. Space of principled receiving. Muscular discipline that means honoring all that comes. Gray dawn and a handful of rice. The stray compliment, toothache, joy, a sunlit relationship. An old regret, a restless night, hope, a bright cloud of butterflies. To accept is to cup this moment in present palms, to stand on shifting sands, steadying the nameless within.


The poetry of acceptance, is the poetry of the shoe that does not bite when you put your foot in it. That lets you walk around in its skin, travels close to the ground and does not quarrel about directions. It’s the kind of poetry that can get you places. And that protects you on the path from scattered thorns.


The poetry of tangents rolled off an ancient Latin tongue to get here. ‘Tangens, present participle of tangere to touch; perhaps akin to Old English thaccian, to touch gently’. I know so from Merriam whose last name is Webster. To touch gently. Like first rays of sun or fine mist of orange peel. Moments that softly graze our cheeks and are gone. Yes we travel the shining arc of our lives, blest by tangential things.

Deep Down Dissatisfaction

The poetry of deep down dissatisfaction, is  that it asserts itself in unexpected moments. Drains the color out of the day and forces you to make an important decision in black and white: Now is the time and here is the place, to lead a truer life.


The poetry of ambiguity is akin to the poetry of the blindfold. Where everything might be and nothing quite is. The language of sight fails at the bend in the road. Fingers must turn eyes, feelings, headlights. The world is rendered unaccustomed, uninterpreted. Don’t be afraid! What is ambiguous is fragile, but dazzling, protected from disaster. The poetry of mist and shadows waltzing in a spotlight on thin ice.