Sunday, January 25, 2015


He clicks the ball-point closed,
raises his bleary-eyes, blinks
inside the mellow ambiance,
folds the napkin, slides it across
the heavily shellacked bar
where her French-tipped
fingers press its corner, lift it
for a look before glancing
around the room and tucking
it safely inside the long dark
shadow of her blouse.

Alba - Winter 2015

Friday, January 16, 2015


I tell myself
that the memory
of a half-dozen welling red dots
along my little sister’s back
before I was old enough
for kindergarten
is evidence
I’ve come a long way.

I tell myself that.

Eclectica - January 2015

The Red-Handled Hatchet

They endure
somehow –

mottled gray
tree stump,


sunburnt boy –


There are memories that stick
like cigarette smoke
and stain white things yellow.

Like that one time
when, right in front of her,
I cried until my face was slick.

There are other memories, though,
that fill my lungs with light
and make me hold my breath
just so I can keep the pure air there.

Like that one time
it had been steady gray in the valley.
I’d been alone for a long time
and I drove to the top of Mary’s Peak,
half hoping to fall asleep on the way
and drift over the edge
right into a more natural state.

When I got to the top,
I was crushed by a foamy high tide
of the whitest white clouds
that filled the expanse between me
and the Warm Springs pools beckoning.
All I had to do was run and reach
and I could have touched the Cascades.

What a deep breath I took right then.

Poppy Road Review - January 2015