My Poetry

I don’t really know what to do with the poetry I write, but I’m trying to get more in the habit of sharing it. That said, while I build a portfolio, I’ll put some of my poetry here.

Moth Verse

“I’ve written nothing of acclaim!”
It whispers in the evening,
leaning in - a sallow moth,
antennae fluttering soft
against a mellow summer wind,
beating dusty wings around a tree.
“The emerald sun has sunk
and it will not rise again.”

Blueberry Season

The challenge of picking blueberries
is not much on the back or knees or shoulders
because the berries grow light and high on the highbush
waiting, conveniently bound in their cerulean clusters,
unless you have grown old, your muscles tired. But then
it is a small suffering for something as sweet
and sour as a filled brimming basket 
of fresh, personally picked blueberries.

The hardship of picking blueberries 
is not much on the heart because 
it is impossible not to love whoever is picking blueberries 
beside you, with whoever you share your vast blue bounty.
Unless you are heartbroken, grieving your loss, but then 
it is a small misery, their cobbled memory reminds you 
of berries soft skin, still warm from basking 
for days and days in the late summer sunlight.

The strain of picking blueberries
is rarely on the mind. A wandering between
and under branches is easy math well practiced.
You will not see equations, divergences nor curls.
You see your blueberries, and you pick them, and you take them home,
unless your berrylust gets the best of you-
so beautiful, so deeply hungry for this you have been.

The toll of picking blueberries
is primarily on the soul. The great price
of your trespass is its transience, so it is
billed directly to the unthought pieces of charge, electrons
dancing wildly their unseen pathways, acting, but not knowing - 
dancing, not knowing. 
Nostalgic, anxious and sorry, hungry and full of regret - 
but still not knowing.
Just so, the sun, the rain, the berried branches
will continue this work without you. 

Yes! More blueberries will grow tonight, 
once the sun sets and you toss and turn,
dreaming again of the things 
your mind would dare not conjure,
your heart would dare not trust,
your back would dare not carry.

Spaventoso, Ma Non Troppo

Could I describe
this one part 
of the song? Ah, no,
I’m afraid I can’t.

Yet still I will try.

You have to listen -
right there! The tone - 
it breathes! No, no -
it stops its breathing.

The refrain, there, it’s gone. 

I’m becoming afraid,
this isn’t working.
you’re listening and hearing
the song, not this.

The beautiful music, not this. 

I’ll try again
if you’d let me.
But before you say -
it’s just the same,

it’s just what you heard before,

it’s not -  softly, 
the major change. 
It’s so obvious,
Just tonal cliche.

Forget it, forget this. 

I’m afraid now that
I’ve been stupid
and obvious, and lazy
with my small soul.

It was dreadfully foolish...

...but there it is,
Obvious, played, 
again, again. 
A practiced grip-

It takes me again. 

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