Who put the draping in the drapes?

In a scarf, around the neck,
Rippling foothills swing.

Mt. Golden Ears grows by the inch
Glen Valley forms in centimetres
Each is made and more each day
By thrown bed covers
at Daybreak.

Forests rise from soft tendrils
Of a loose weave and
Truffula trees scatter about.

Versed contour farming lays
Furrowed cords in

Undulation escapes perception
Without tonal traces to show curves.

Artist asks,
“what do the shapes of the shadows
Say about the light of day?”.

Sand Castle

Each day, a walk to a beach
Down dunes, over logs
I tarry for a time;
I watch for the winking of the water
Then it is time to begin
Work, there is much work to be done.

On the knees, hands dig deep
And the birds, they fly high
By noon many spires, turrets, towers
There are walls, parapets, and a moat
Many flags, roofs, and stained sea glass
And dragons, there’s so many dragons
By late or soon is nothing more
As tides take in their turning
I recede to sleep or whatever might be.

Each day is a day of its own:
Ups, arounds, and myriad downtowns
Till it is time, it is time, it is time
I set to my knees laying latitude
And my spires, turrets, towers
Set sail with the driftwood captain
To the long sleep I carry on
Or whatever might be.

Until again by cadence
I rise as spires, turrets, towers
And sea glass eye
Of another.


Pray, I hope to live in time
When forgone is our use of deadbolt.

A tragic happenstance that locked
With the dead are doors, that such is
Clad the threshold of home and hearth.

I am kindred to a future of livebolts, and
The day we unlock doors with the living
An unbarring tutelary that welcomes—
Extending visitation hospitality,
Such even as soon to a sorry thief.