Content with the Rustling

Man in boat, alone with book,
Sighs mightily. Looks skyward.

Mallards, in pairs, sail close,
Circling for bread, expectant.

Clouds above, seek resolve, then
Resoundingly, give their load a rest.

Humble water leaps, so tickled, and
Time, meanwhile, whispers advice to

Cattails: souls who look, circle, seek
Should rest, content with the rustling.

Inhale, Exhale, Snow


Soft bed of snow in a dark forest, two bodies breathe.

we feel the cold burden, the dead weight,
it presses for answers as our chests fight to rise, rise, rise …
gratefully, audibly. When it’s over, snow settles
on our eyelids with the lightest touch. We, in ancient silence,

lay breathless.

Finally (the only truth)

you say as night settles
for the progress of the day.

as soon as you’re born

 you die a little
  every day, with every scraped knee
   and every time
    someone disappoints you
     or you break another heart.

all the blood of daily pin pricks pile like so many dried leaves
tossed by a breezy blood orange moon with eyes like a wise old owl.

Finally, you say.

Wipe a finger
across a dusty bookshelf full of old photographs
to feel the only truth
known to owls, and moons.

forget the past (1938)

hi all – I felt like featuring some poems from my great-grandmother’s earliest text – Silver Threads (Alice B. Johnson, Layren Press: 1938). This one goes out to my cousin tonight. i love this poem (and hope you read it someday JRB)

Forget the Past

“Forget the past,”
A small voice said,
“Bury it deeper
Than the dead.

Bury it deeper
Than the dead,
A ghost of fear
Might raise its head.

Shades of remorse
Regret has fed,
Bury them deeper
Than the dead.”

“Forget the past,
The past is dead,
To-day is yours!”
The small voice said.