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The peacock’s shriek always claims His vengeance.
“Vanity, vanity!” she called it,
every letter light-pierced and partial
stabbing back his every word.

“Vanity, vanity!” she called it.
Unmarried, childless, homely, “slow,”
stabbing back his every word
she still knew to nod at the passing litany of cities as she stared at their wronged faces.

The big-rig long haulers bragged her past as the hunters laughed if she’d pray for the quails.
They went laughing off to kill, and the sun seemed to tug to do exactly that.
She still knew to nod at the passing litany of cities as she stared at their wronged faces
back to the banter she could hardly follow.

They went laughing off to kill, and the sun seemed to tug to do exactly that.
Animals be damned
back to the banter she could hardly follow.
It’s not happiness, but something else; waiting for the light to change.

Animals be damned.
It emerges from darkness into the next day surrounded.
It’s not happiness but something else; waiting for the light to change
by their memories of everything that occurred taking place.

It emerges from darkness into the next day surrounded
with the other’s face as a backdrop sometimes
by their memories of everything that occurred taking place
in air sometimes grainy like a movie with sometimes an ending that looked like a different beginning.

With the other’s face as a backdrop sometimes,
in which one walked in front of the other breathing
in air sometimes grainy like a movie with sometimes an ending that looked like a different beginning
all stories stop: once more she is lost.

In which one walked in front of the other breathing
every letter light pierced and partial
all stories stop: once more she is lost.
The peacock’s shriek always claims His vengeance.

Autumn Trees

Fabricated tick tocks
beat against each fallen leaf
fading with forgotten hues.

Stellar dreams no longer effortless
thrash in vindictive tears tearing
at the knot preventing sudden death,

but where have the trusted hopes gone:
sunken into grey along with the sparks
blackening skin to keep warm.

All that’s left are the entwining
broken branches of forfeited dreams
waiting to be rooted once more.

Sailing

Men sail the seas
in search of truth or treasure;
hearts full of childhood poetry.
The sails go up
in the first excitement,
where winds blow
into the words of the wild seas.

The journey is rough:
storms crash waves into rocky boats

while leaky pens offer no warrant

until the eye of the storm

offers a moment’s peace,

but sometimes winds cease to blow

that the ship must lay

quiet and unmoving.

Some men grow daft,

some tired and abandon ship;

hopes of discovery drown
beneath the hull,
but winds always come back,

blowing in one direction or anew

to start the journey once again.

In the end
there’s always one

brave enough to continue sailing,

and finally finds

both truth and treasure

inked upon his hands.

Will Be Back Soon

Just starting fresh.