Listen: when I was a young boy and my motheropened a pre-school so she could be near to us,so she could learn to be a teacher,to start a new life,after my oldest friend,my father,decided he couldn’t live with us anymore— when yellow Tupperware started flyingacross kitchens, and I hidunder the warm chestnut-igloodining table; when our new lifetasted bitter, and the old one,only halfway out the...
Who am I that writeThis worthless little poem?Who grips the pen and taps the time,And does he tap alone? From where is he issued?And from whose guilty mirrorDoes he imperfectly reflectOn what to love, to fear? Is he immaculatelyConceived and born to ruleOver his life and will,Or a puppet and a fool? I choose to write this,Without comprehending choice;I ask these silly questions,But who answers in...
Many Sturdy Trees the Poet’s felledFor pages filled with nature’s awesome beautyAs though never before have they beheldSubject so deserving of their skillful duty They sing evenings full of linnet’s hushed wings,Clouds blowing round by wild western windAnd Golden daffodils and dappled things,April Orchard boughs in old London— On thriftless praise their time too liberal...
Darkness never comes on winter nights—Never truly;The snow illuminates the streets,A midnight dawn. I might walk along pillowed road,Down icy hillAnd sit under gas station lightsWhere Big Sis burns Cigarettes and Angled AngieWinks warm maybes;Where brown water is called coffee,Loneliness, friends; Or back again up snowy moundWhere wood-by homesHold up the mountains and the moon,And snow sticks...
If I cannot take you with me,then I don’t want it. If life is a thing of subtler things,I despise it. If the greatestis that which cannot be lost,and the old man says, “Investin what lasts!” — I say: horseshit. There is nothing greater than you,my love. And if I shore up treasureon my way to where treasureweighs me down,then heap me up, baby! For all the subtle things —the things that really pull...
I found a strange pine needle once,exploring the grove near Grandma’s home,where my brother and I had often roamed. This needle, lying in the grove,forged of steel, not pine nor grown,was used in bleak festivity. We marveled at that false pine’s glassabdomen, crushed—its venom lately assumedup arms, its stinger true. We gave the needle’s man a form;in talks, in my imaginings,a fiend—gray-skinned...
Have patience when your noon is full,As you peak o’er the evening fall,When your breath quickens at the soundOf empty valley tumbling down. Hurry not as the shadows riseTo steal what morning sweat has earned,As straight sunbeams gaily revealWhat gave you free, now sour mourn. Have patience, love, less faith in sight;If eyes present a painful way,Doubt their truth, so your spirit mightStrengthen...
Why must a field of cottontails so please,Each stalk a thread in holy tapestry,Whose many parts of one part in the breeze,Much too fair for any monastery? They are not ordered like the city square,Architect’s design to divine pretend,Nor as the fresh-cut poodle’s golden hair,The groomer’s hand with perfection contend. But sweet and soft as only nature may,From raindrops a chaotic melody,Gently...
The old Loon’s yodel, lonely fliesAcross last season’s thawing lake;Fee-bee, the Chickadee replies. In cove, over moss nest, he sighs,His hopes a raccoon’s to unmake.The old Loon’s yodel, lonely flies. His water double doubly lies:A ruined bird—nature’s mistake.Fee-bee, the Chickadee replies. But look—a female loon he spies!This chance one he will not forsake.The old Loon’s yodel, lonely flies...
Sometimes, life delivers a message in the most unexpected way. At Salt Lake City’s Hogle Zoo, a father watches an elephant struggle, learn, and ultimately share a revelation that changes everything. But did he really hear what he thinks he heard? This surreal short story explores the weight of unexpected wisdom—and the moment it demands action.