Poetry

Poem: Iceland

Waterfall in Iceland

Iceland   Sheep speckling green countryside Towns that only know their name The drone of draining Waterfalls stuttering a shutter Black sand dark like Ashen wool of rams Bred for wildness by Frostbitten fingers Lingering in towns that only Know their name Sunset hues at noon Subside at the season’s Undecided hour Colorful painters Do not…

Nowhere by HEK

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Last march I was joined by HEK, an Icelandic Singer/Songwriter and poet whom I had met in the previous year. He wrote the poem “Nowhere” right before he came to the US, and in Brooklyn taverns and late night jam sessions would recite it to whatevcer haphazard groups we’d managed to assemble. It has a…

Don’t Retreat Into Your Phone

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  Don’t Retreat Into Your Phone When the pondering barista slices fruit for smoothies When filling a frustrated space In line in a foreign New York neighborhood   When the parks call your name and The sun has declared himself sultan of the Conquered grass,   Yesterday called, wishing he had had more time During…

POETRY: How We Are Human

How We Are Human

Title poem off acclaimed collection, How We Are Human.  How We Are Human How we dig desperately at the coarse crust, Seeking, searching for the soft cream beneath Only to discover we were crust people after-all, Needing the crispness of a crunch to give us the Dream of cream that keeps us clawing, reaching, Gargling…

Mountain Goats, Choosing Joy

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We are goats of le mountain and we watch from these heights domesticated goats in le distance and wonder at what sins their Ramcestors must have committed for le condemnation of roaming the sumps below, away from le clouds, away from le warmth of mountain stars—what temptations yesteryear’s ewes relented to for this race to…

Hestia’s Hulk

What to do with dew-drenched days squished by the pressure of our pains? Morning, as seen from the inside pane, Scolds anoche’s wine who regrets making the acquaintance of whiskey and networking with tequila who tickled Hestia into the Hulk. Morning light, you ever-eager retriever, the nature of a hangover is not to nurture, so…

Mary’s Poem

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Mary’s Poem Written by request for my sister Who wanted me to write a poem That she could turn a line from into a tattoo   Mary, when I emerged from the existential doubt our Last chat plunged me into, I felt guarded, yet flattered and cautious in the face of this brave new permanent…

Ned’s Promised Land

Ned's Promised Land

There’s a promised land we are all searching for. All of our inclinations and addiction, remoteness, disagreement and whatnot have been put aside as we align every impulse, action and affection towards it. We picture the land flowing with remorseless hills fluent in all dialects of pasture and privy to the whispers of late summer…

Poetry Of The Dead

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In memory of my poet grandmother, Patricia Mees Armstrong. The Italicized lines are taken from her verse. Poetry of the Dead from my poetry collection How We Are Human.

The Ballad of The Mosquito and the House Fly

Mosquito and Housefly

At a BBQ early today somebody brought Nickel Nips. Do you know what Nickel Nips are? Even if you think you don’t, yes, you do. Remember these little guys from your sweet tooth teething childhoods? Anyways, I twisted two together and put them in a tree, because… that’s just the sort of stuff you do…

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