Poet Commentaries

May 2017 Journal

May 2nd.

I have been thinking of expel and inhale and how there is a technique to breathing. In life there are cycles of inhaling and pondering and of exhaling and living, pushing out dreams. We do not know what this is.

James also is journaling this month and found …something. It is great when we see a leaf drop and know this is a season in us but what season are we in. What nature of tree or bird are we? Journaling helps bring this out.

My first poem on Breath. It came out of much much deeper ponderings and long long breaths. All I could do today was a very limited look at this concept. Yes, the breath of God should in the end be seen but I have doubts I will get there.



the angel sang out,
holding onto reigns
of an apocalyptic horse.
The horse rears
and looks for the voice
deceived by echoes
bounced off four corners.

A spitball splats
five desks forward
and two rows over,
three volleys are returned
across the bow.
Braids pulled
puller upbraided.


He finds her voice
and focuses on her chin
and the tilt of her neck.
Reigns are tugged left and right
desperately wanting peripheral
and unsure echoes again.
Staunch legs pull back
and a whinny snort is sprayed.

Giggles pool in the corner
love notes fly
plans for a schoolyard fight
and a year end bash
Hands find sweaty hands
and rub sore shoulders.


The horse finds her eyes
bows for a nose rub
an ear scritch
and a bucket of oats.

The last chair shifts.
She was a tough music teacher
but we were fond of her.
At graduation
we pitched in for jello,
jello one, two, three.

She delivered “one-two-three”
in one breath
with a bellow tuned to angel.
Like her lesson,
“Suck it all in”

She would hold her candle up.
“Expel it
make this baby flicker,
bend it
and make it shiver.
Play with it
but never let it
go out.

Leave a trail of bubbles
as you swim
under the ocean.”


(posted The Bus Ride and Sounds of Silence at 445 on Twitter)

Warped seasoned wood
steamed and pressed
the clamp screws tightened.

The little whip of green
no good.
There’s a drawing back
and shrinking
as it ages.
The true measure
of itself
not yet known.

The lashes slacken
screws pop
fibres snap
and union is lost

The old dried out twig

(Working on this. There is a metaphor in pressed and curved wood furniture.)


a little less sugar
and truth

May 1st

They should have been wings
but I never learned transcendance
and was never very good
at letting go in the breeze.
So I dreamed
till flight no longer possible.

Bee buzzed
by what I Am
spoke my two lips

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