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…
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…
I had never heard my grandpa sob before. His shaking hands grasped for the first time a book of my grandmother’s selected poetry, Her Life On Paper: Poems of Survival. Most people will remember Super Bowl XLVIII as the day the Seahawks trounced a dismantled Bronco’s team. My grandpa will remember it as the day…
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…
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…
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 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…
Forward from Bushwick Poetry, available from Amazon.com I know it was late because when I went inside to use the bathroom the last act of the night at The Goodbye Blue Monday was packing up their instruments. I invited the musicians to come out back and they joined our circle of patio chair. Half of us…
Pull from favorite music blossoming in earbuds— that stairway into other worlds. Cease the chatter of powered creatures and they will let you deserved leave to hear a drip from the faucet which properly perceived is a forest facing the open window and its family of hewn sounds that tell us the time and set…
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…
