Sketches in the Sand

Every drifting grain knows

A living memory:

its creation.


A map,

Each molecule,

Follows a pattern;

And, something grows.


Skeletons, flesh and blueprints,

She’s molding,

Into a turtle’s shell;

Pieces of history,


In those moments,

In her hands.


In each grain,

Is a traveler

From a land; no,

Part of a land,

An earthen hand

She held

In another time.


Her sanctuary,

A totem,

A metamorphic watch,

A traveler calling on travelers:

“Safety and good luck!”



A blindfolded man
Reaches out his hand
In the dark and I grasp it.
Skin rough and warm,
I know where it’s been.
Accustomed to the rock
And the hard place,
He knows each drop,
Each curve, each handhold,
Each place to ground my feet.

He shouts from a mouth,
Ungagged, and my obstacles
Crumble, reduced to gravel,
I can walk in the sand.
A blindfolded man,
Protecting my smooth,
Supple hand,
Walks with me,
Should I let him see?

The real me
Moves to free
His sight.
“No. It’s better
Like this.” He whispers.
“I can see in the dark.
Each vibration
In my ears is the start
Of a stirring in my heart
That feeds my brain.
Each waft to my nose
Helps to train
My mind’s eye
To build forms
That will shatter
When the light hits
my retina.”

Resting by a tree,
“Would you have trusted
Me, if I could see
You completely” he asks,
As he grasps for a limb
Intricately branched.
“Each of these buds opens
At my touch.
Let me help you reach
Them, your touch will
pollenate them
And, together, we’ll
make fruit to nourish
Passersby, weary
From the climb.”

His question,
I did not answer.
I only let him guide
My finger to the blooms
He opened; and, together
We made fruit
For passersby,
Weary from their own
Climbs, through the darkness
And the light,
Both in blindness
and in sight.

No, No, I Won’t Go (To the Wall Street Demonstration)

No, no, dear

Grinding gear,

I’d rather not

Have my knee bashed,

By your attaché,

As you pass.


My temper,


May throw a brick;

But, what would that do?

You are only you,

After all;

And, a brick

Is just a brick;

Or, is it?


Hardened, fired clay,

The product of pulp

Decayed and compressed,

At least, the brick

Knows what it is.


The pulp in your wallet

Isn’t so sure,

Its value disappearing;

Still, the pulp remains, solid

Matter crafted

Into illusion.


A representation

Of an idea compounding,

fracturing its conceptions of worth.

Ever Grey


, , , , ,


The skeleton stands fast

Against the lushness,

The green and litmus

Spectrum of shrub,

Of flora gripping

The earth in tarsals

Wedged deep below

The shallow rhizomic

Mat of grass.


Stark solemnity masks

The once prolific dance

Of petaled buds swirling

In the late spring breeze.


Carpals reaching

To make perches

Hide the burrowed nests

Nurturing life wrapped in death.


Paleness shimmers

On the rough crests,

Exoskin beckoning with texture

What fanning leaves once did,

Watching the play of children

Swinging from its limbs.

Prisoners of War


, , ,

While the fleshy gears

In the mirrory ‘scrapers

Turn, an empty stomach

Churns near a fire

Smelling of last night’s vomit.

The stakeholders throw dividends

The equivalent of ammunition

In the new world war,

Titans in the order of things

Oblivious to the smoke streams

Coming from below.

There they throw stones in jest

Crunching glass in their camps

under tents and over asphalt

under the wooded cover,

a poor man’s shelter.

They barter in drink and

Dabble in drugs to pass

The hours out of the fighting,

The business man’s war.

They have no draft cards,

They require an address,

One-fifty-one campfire row won’t suffice.

A raucous joy masks their distain

For themselves, soldiers unfit

To fight for the dream

Pondered on golf courses

Just before the guillotine

Drops, removing gears from

the machine, the great tank

pushing forward to get more green

paper, a joke in the POW zone.

The money means nothing,

It is only a loan.

They deal in goods or none.

Still, the war rages on

Until everything but the penthouse

Is a slum.



, , , , , , ,

Voices out of my head
And into yours,
Into mine intertwine
Like vines. My conscience
Must unravel each sinew,
Each thought, before
It is bought by belief.
The thread of consciousness
branches, razor wires,
slicing into fruits or pruning
A limb at a whim.
A dangerous business
Thought is,
As real as a slap
In the face.
Except, it cannot face
It’s victim, each soul
With the living
Suffers its existence,
Fights for its own voice
to win, to stroke
A face like a feather
Or give a gift
Of knowledge a smile
Of revelation a laugh
Each fiber of wisdom
As fragile as glass
The fruit of the battle
Of the mind.


Tiny rivulets of paint 
Spew onto the concrete canvas, 
The outlet of her mind. 

The monster she shows passersby 
In garish colors clings
In each mind's eye. 
I wonder, as I walk, why? 
Why the monster, like a villain
From the dreams of children,
Screams louder than the print 
Of any city's Times. 

Is it the risk? 
The risk she took 
With each sweep, with each line?
The message is clear.
Terror isn't a teen 
Armed with aerosolized pigment, 
Running from uniformed slaves 
To the laws of the game. 

Terror is the lover 
Who leaves, who leaves 
Her affection barren, 
An affectation, designed
To coax her new lover 
Of his worth, 
Compensated with carefully-tilled Earth, 
Slipping from the fingers 
Of the reconciled man. 

The monster is green, 
A tempter of ego, 
A voracious appetite, 
Like fire out of control. 
It will burn, 
But not consume, 
The lovers, the mothers 
Or any in life that lay 
Its wiles to rest.

The Why Tree


The Why Tree branches

At stump height

Stolidly offering a rigid hammock

to passers-by.


I accept its invitation

Wondering why.

Why has this tree branched so

Low below the shrubs

In the salty air?


It’s not important;

I decide lounging

In solidarity, its comfort

Gratefully mine in the windwashed bones

Breaking above the sandy loam.

The River

Monacacy RIver

Shimmering white blinds my eyes
As I gaze into the rushing water.
Water that reflects the I am,
Rushing and running over rocks
Swirling steadily into pools
As still as a looking glass
A snapshot of what I was
In that moment,
Ever changing is who I am,
Blurred in reflection,
Over obstacles and under them,
Rushing, running over rocks,
Pulling nutrients from the bed,
A home for the fishes of ideas,
Jumping and flashing,
Their scales gleaming,
Taunting for a chance to be caught
In the net of dreams,
The incubator of creativity,
They run through the blurred
Reflection of my face.
Blinded by the shimmering white,
I feel the pull of a could be on my line.
I bring the flailing fish into my boat,
Prepared to clean it for all it is worth.
In its flesh I find nourishment.
In its beauty inspiration,
I pack it away and paddle for home.