Tag Archives: darkness



What is left to add to the millions of words

in books of poems stacked on shelves around me,

as if by some osmotic marvel they might impart

a simple brilliance, a lasting, unfettered glow

that I might capture and travel the page by?


My early morning sojourns into darkness seek

reveries I can hear and feel with my hands,

well-apart from the blinding light of day,

that prismed cacophony of lies driven by

man’s ugly nature of greed and power.


I crave blackness under clouds and crisp

moon shadows in a breeze, redrawing

constellations from twinkling starlight

like the ceiling of the old Fox Theater

from where I believed Walt Disney fell.


The primal bellow of a bull or the prolonged

serenades of a hundred coyotes in the canyon,

January is a month in love at night. Closing

the distance between hoots, the owls

have finally agreed on a tree to raise a family.