Day 15/30 of the Tupelo 30/30 Project (20170815)

unable to panic
when the jet fuel starts to burn….


Don’t stop now. Read the whole thing. My poem normalcy bias is available to read at the Tupelo 30/30 project page.

Note: I was made aware of the normalcy bias from a book (I’m listening to the audio version) titled You Are Not So Smart by David McRaney. I endorse this book, as well as his podcast.

Day 11/30 of the Tupelo 30/30 Project (20170811)

a lantern floats in a small bowl
a sandalwood scented candle burning
just outside the front door
you always liked lotus flowers….


Want to read more? You can. My poem ghost is available to read at the Tupelo 30/30 project page.

(This one is a bit late. Hope to have today’s poem up soon…)

esprit accompli (20170202)

standing just beyond my door
and no one saw but me
moon-like face so ghostly pale
and eyes a dead white sea

skin of alabaster stone
her wild hair untamed
shrouded in her burial clothes
she bade me ask her name

jaw unlocked, i spoke her name
she nodded at me twice
turned to ash and then to air
for that was naming’s price


dVerse ~ Poets Pub
Meeting the bar: Common Meter

a memory of shape (20160912)

the ghosts don’t have shapes, you said
it’s plain to me because the idea of a
soul is outdated, as outdated as the
idea of the homunculus the little mad
man behind the curtain telling you to
eat cookies and scratch your ass in

i point out that i never equated a ghost
with a human soul merely that there
were such things as ghosts and they
most definitely have shapes if not
actual substance

if a ghost is not a soul, then what is it
you ask, pressing me further on the subject

i am about to answer when the light changes
in the room and you fade out where a
beam of sunlight illuminates where you
used to sit on the sofa

what the moon is made of (20160618)

the sun isn’t even down
and the moon has already
more than cleared the horizon
(i could measure the angle
using that old trick by
laying fist on top of fist
like bricks)

only a ghost hiding behind clouds
that roll like cream
curdling in pale, lemon-heavy tea

did i say ghost?
the moon is a pile of
polished bones
rounded by a little circle

it sees things
and my bones see things
and from the sky
i can see myself look up
at myself
wondering when i will blink

gold and ghosts (poem 20160513)

the mining town is full of ghosts
phantom families drifting
from shop to shop
buying ice cream
that evaporates in this heat
ghost workers and tour guides
repeating their lines on a loop in
this rough and disheveled tourist trap
not even the original town
recreated with old haunted wood
spirit that i am
i pay my money for the mine tour
and the train ride
and wish for a real ghost
to glide out of the shadow
of the mountain