he does not mention love

and in this story, as in all good stories, there is a ghost called upon to tell the truth.

I can’t tell this story the right way now.   I know too
much more.   Makes past something apart from me.


could’a been me.   that much, yes, I can see.

(I confess, I like how I see) (a better bowl arrives)

there is a desire to connect.   isn’t that obvious?

          mutual.   her picture in his hands.

no, didn’t then all understand (appreciate) what
those feelings meant.   all filled up, bright inside.

attraction meant exactly that, like a planet and
a moon.   something round.   easy

          without a thought.

we wouldn’t always feel as now, more than memory.
sometimes when, forever just seemed natural.
no end in sight.

hand in hand.

and now.    bigger than.


shoeless feet say home like this

feet know this floor board by board, the gaps, the splinters, all of it.

some added pillows on the bed.   think I’ll keep them around, close to me.

a pillow is almost a cat.   or maybe dog, but I don’t know dogs that way.

this room thinks it is the ocean.   that’s why you see blue around every where.

meditation rolls like wheels do.   in fact, it was created before wheels were.

floorboards creak as a sign of enduring affection.   familiar, those feet.

window shades, one step away.   from there we can see the barn outside.

if the cat was home, she’d be sound asleep on the bed.   next to me.

light arrives just like a bird.   slender claws mark where faith holds on.

before me, a child slept in this bed.   like a dog, I circle before laying down.

another name for bed is nest.   a nest remembers all your many dreams.

some threads.   some webs we sketched.   like eight legs would draw,

if I called out your name.   would you respond?   here, come close.
now, close your eyes.

poetry without poets

I believe in atoms and molecules.
I believe in stars and places to go.

I believe in a glass of milk.
I believe in Easter eggs.

I believe in the rule of sevens.
I believe in moons and tides.

I believe that light is god’s
        open eyes.

I believe in Father and Mother.
I believe in here-I-am, a bump
        in the bed.

I see bright, I see dark.

the rule is less than what it portends
to measure.   such as my life.

we are the bump in the middle
of forever.   taken at its word.

we are, the age of stars.

red stars will go blind, eventually.
out of sight.   then every thing evaporates.

and darkness will be on the face of
        the earth.   and everything.

as it was in the beginning and will be
again.   what does your poetry look like

what are the poems beneath our bodies, ourselves?

why words will describe the heavens
        then.   words take no space.

will we be sleeping, one eye ajar?

     I’ll keep an eye out for you.
image:   (look see below)
Sagittarius A*, the great black hole at the center of our Milky Way galaxy.

2022.11.13 graphics revised from original post

the room in moonlight

the room in moonlight.   a room.   like water is.

I remember place just slightly more than space.

        am I inside the room, or

        is the room all made of me?   these legs.

        these arms.   this head.   this chest.   my heart.

I’d say I remember.   the light.   the moon outside.
I remember the shadows.   I remember shapes.

what’s staying in place.   anyone moving here?

was that the cat, kinda three-quarters worth?
oh, floors that couldn’t be more amber bright.

have I been here before this night?   but no, not alone.

an easy nest to adore.   a door half of glass.

am I a stranger here?   I don’t want to be.

are these grooves beneath the furniture?

here a scratch.   was that me?

because these scratches, therefore I am.

image: tti    #

three word poem, gone astray


oh sleep

(eyes, blinking open.)

you see?   that’s enough, however look
I’ve made up thinking more.

too eager?   a judgment certainly.

what’s in that brimming bowl?

sweet forgetfulness (oh, yea, I understand).

my muscles, not holding rigid thoughts.

a space for dreams to see their stories right.

light.   at least a bushel’s worth.

one white butterfly.

ask, if you’d be fond of a spoon in your hand.

counting pebble skies

thirty-eight birds on a wire.
clear bright spotless blue otherwise.
shadow limb roosted leaves unmoved
in summer middle-day heat.   silent green.

slumbered earthen white truck beneath
claws itself awake, clears its’ throat.
unexpected growl.   startled all
into flight.

feathers leap into elliptic waves all
in less space than one random thought.
become a broken road round river


oddly enough, fifty-three return.

one is white.

prompt:   write a poem about something that takes place in a near instant (say five seconds or less), and keep your observations attentively direct without consideration toward meanings.

and oddly, birds on my mind.   so this.

gilt-edged tanager hatched

          all the words I had lost or abandoned returned to me,   Kerfe

in the beginning I wasn’t a bird.   I was a circumspect rendition of what feathers might become.

in the beginning I was black.   well, everything was black, no hint of color.
     except for my Creator’s eyes.

     these eyes were given me.

in the beginning I walked the Earth.   then Creator said, oh, I meant for you to be kin with sky.   so Creator lifted me above the ground.
     then I was given wings.

from such heights I can see far away, or close, very close, like inside.   I see

          my blood is blue.   my blood is green.   ochre is my blood,
          the name I respond to when you call to me.
          I was an egg, and then

I was the lips of the Creator when she looked at me.   I smiled.

          I became the colors of blood.
I looked, saw companion stars and moons, and you.   I looked and what I most wanted to be in all of this creation was – free.   unbound.   no cage.   no leash.
     no treat tempting me to roost on a fingertip.

     then I am the fingertip.

I might be a djinn.   no, I’m a bird.   but really, how’d you know?
I don’t live in a bottle, but I do sleep in a tree.   no ropes, no hoist.
     just the sharp embrace of my prayers.

and every day I sing the colors you might become.   a room with more wings.

          first there was air, then there was us.

even to the shade beneath each leaf.   what it is that you expect,
but afterwards, obvious.
one story, one nest.   a binary heart.

close circled.    close.   manifest.

feather threads itself into wind.

wind becomes a wing.


found are

feathers, one sharp stone, obsidian.   a ribbon to cut.

a pebble shaped like a wave.   faith (maybe a fish).

happenstance.    genuine toes, one pair.

image:   gilt-edged tanager, draw a bird day (ink pen with watercolor), Kerfe
                used with appreciation (and kind permission)

without a leash

                 a conversation ensconced in only one Spoken

these aren’t the words I want to say.

maybe there aren’t words to do what I want to do.

like I’d like their meaning to matter, being words.

       merely words.

       rough hewn, on the loose.

she says abstract.   meaning something else?   but, yea.
I wanna say I understand.   I wanna say I understand
everything.   including not the words, but what they
mean without the tethered word.

like me, like you, like sun, warm touching, like animals
with four feet, like close enough to know your scent
(like my cat used to do with my dirty shirts on the
closet floor), like that.   (if you know, you know what
I mean.)


like what understanding really means without the
cloak.   like how process means removing what isn’t
to finally get to what is.   less, but meaning more.

       process, more than result is my breath.

like love.

yea, like that.   without hint of shy or fear.
what’s it like when love leaves your body?

just passing through.   like they say.   like that.

       a conduit.   nothing held in your hands.

       can that be imagined?
nothing wants to be less (or more) than it is.
another stray cat who comes home with you.
       gratitude is a mirror.   I long to be
       your words.
what walks on four feet, but doesn’t come when
you call?   poems, yea, poems.   by tooth and claw.
       affections second face.

       here’s a high-water mark.
death in the abstract, she says he says.   sometimes
(well, only once actually) I’ve considered the possibility
as possible.

think I understand?   no.   more than yesterday.
but the not-abstraction is more personal.

like they say, I’ll tell you when I know.
but no.   I won’t.

habits save my life.   habits confuse my life.
Alan Watts used to tell this story (and if he didn’t,
I’m saying he did) about a finger underneath a blanket,
poking the blanket up into sky.   when finger is moved
away – the blanket remains.   it is just a change in
altitude.   so where do we identify?
       draw your own geology.

yea, laundry, and dirty dishes.   they make demands.

but also, yes, it is within the smaller details where
I roost.   a particular fallen autumn leaf, even as
it continues to morph away from sight.

       these bits and pieces we measure here.

what to do with an injured bird, she asked.

they aren’t endangered or anything, he said.
       yea?   that’s me you’re talking about.

how to turn inside out a breaking heart.

        that’s a verb, not a noun.

    I said thus.   unblemished.

    be the stone in the middle of the creek.

    use your words.    speak.    speak now.

Houdini says, given time all will be made clear.

devotion found

          ten fingers, ten toes.
he thought it might be a problem,
the lion nibbling at his feet.

well, he thought, I’ve got two of them,
one enough more to share.

wait, that fur is black leopard print
and not toes but fingers in his mouth.

should I be worried, he worried to himself.

then said the leopard, no frets, no strings,
I just like your taste and

nothing more to doubt than just
my affection, lingering

on an eager tongue.
you know perfectly well, this is
one of your fondest dreams,

being loved by a love that could
effortlessly eat you right on up,

if she wanted to.

you’re right,  he said.

then smiled.