Poetry

If tonight were the word's last night might I spend it striking the anvil of rhetoric ...

Obscurely yet surely backyard birds simple & further from corruption with the wonder of wings call us to praise...

This morning, two scrub jays in a scrub oak look out over the canyon ...

Like all of us who carry hidden pain, he soberly performed his task that day ...

An anxious mind is paralyzed by choice. The angel doesn't offer choice but birth ...

How can we stomp it out? all the rude crude smashed glass & heartache ...

did it hurt when tongues of fire landed on their heads ...

Blood streaks splatter across moonbeams like a pearl-string snatched from a virgin's neck ...