POEM: Renga

Snow covered trees reach
Up with meaty muscled arms -
Bones replete with flesh

Spackled gray - craning shoulders
That hold up the sky.

In razor water,
Those gray cranes stand tall crossing
Primal horizon -

An eastern cross in braised light
The purple of blood.

Bruised round purple fruit -
As kisses go, this one comes
Close to violence,

Tender sunrise, slips its bonds –
This birthday balloon!

Rolling, I cannot
Escape the laughter of day
Or sheltering clouds.

My sleep, shrouded in felt fog,
Holds open its hands

As parallel lines
Like rails as long as dreaming,
Gives off diamond tones -

Shards of bright awakenings -
These milky jet streams.

POEM: Soft

I understand how hard things run this world
And how it is crucial to have the heart of a lion –
But sometimes we must have softness drip into
Our lives like fresh brewed coffee, too – and with the same aroma.

We need to give away the sharp edges
And avoid the need for uncommon bravery.
To be open to all sorts of possibility
We must first give permission – for
Giving in and up are two entirely different things.

But even giving up is not a permanent choice.

The permafrost of our lives always
Gives way to spongy mud
And the sound of the spirit is the sound of water:
Rambling and aimless and a little mad,
Relentless and playful – and slightly sad.