Month: February 2015

Ghost Ship

I feel my feet on the ground. They are my feet in goodwill shoes, in fresh white socks. I push down, feeling closer to you.

As our birth month approaches, I grow older then you ever imagined. Wish you had a grave I could toss myself on. Leery of convention. No way to grieve suicide without anger. I settle for a candle de la virgin and daily morning prayers for your rocky soul.

I remember my feet in my shoes, my hands on my lap, they are my feet, they are my wiggling toes. They are my fingers and nails, painted grey today. My stiff joints and solo prints. I couldn’t stop you.

You got out first and warn me away when I come too close to your wake. Your wind driven ripple’s rock me slowly back to a more forgiving shore. I see your ship, no longer adrift, as you wave from the stern and sail slow. Engulfed in fog. Waiting for the next time I need your skeletons misty counsel.


A Question of Faith

Note: Folks have been asking about my spiritual choices a lot these days. Which is is fine, I am always open to questions. And poetic explanations.

in the beginning

I believed in family ties,

friendship unending,

community commitments.

until humanity, two by two

turned broad backs

on that little girl

in her rough blue coat,

walking these soaked woods.

cracking life

under worn work boots.

next I believed in revolutions

until I met revolutionaries.

now I believe in Allah ( صلى الله عليه وسلم )

and walk hard

with a trusted few

to travel this forest well

ready, at a moments notice

to walk into the sun

of a world reborn.

Island Cowboy

for Howard

I go home

slowly these days.

each return

is to morn another


death upon death

rip at my roots tenuous

grasp on the rock, leaving

feet dangling,

fingernails clutch,

slide down glacier boulders

unable to hold.

childhood memories

glitter, the kids I watched

raised, no longer recognize

my smile and elders pass

25 miles an hour

and out of sight.

as a kid my voice hid

but I listened to the words

that shaped the island we all whirled

life out of, you too kept your voice close

but I knew the stories trapped

under your sweat stained,

always tipped

once white hat

were the ones I earned to learn.

there always, in your chair

at community dances, oxygen tank in tow

transparent cord never slowin you down

I watched with respect

learning: dignity, kindness, diligence

through your cocked bushy eyebrows

the always wave over truck steering wheel

as I passed on my bike

shouldering school books through the woods.

lost lives

become frozen words,

action, memory

we always wish there was more to say

trapped between storm windows.

you weathered each gale

life threw at you, thumbs cocked

in creased leather belt,

pointed boots digging

their weight into gravel turned mud

and that particular accent.

the shape your thoughts took

when you let us share them


as our island ghosts

return each drizzly day

to feather their comfort

down on our shores.




I don’t have an eating disorder.

I just have to trick

myself into eating


hot sauce

take a breath

force it down.

I don’t have an eating disorder

I just forget to eat.

I don’t have a disability

I just walk slow

wake in pain

every 3 am

brain awake,

body asleep.

I don’t have a disability

I just can’t move some days.

I don’t have a mental illness.

I just can’t speak

brain fuzzy

as my sadness

steals all my words,

hides them behind the cans

on the top shelf of my childhood kitchen.

I don’t have a mental illness

I just loose my voice.

I am not sick.

I force myself up

pry my arthritic hands open

and into gloves.

Go to the fields.

Make that white mans money.

I pick your food

and go home hungry

I don’t have an eating disorder,

you don’t give me time to eat.