Category: Poetry

Knowledge and power:
The words that would
supply us with lies
about what it means to be human
Telling us the things we should
reach out, to hold, to have

To succeed and to live
The good life
is to follow the logic of more
To do and to take
To give and to make
And in the good work
that is measured above
is found the good life
that is foreign to love

Fog rolling low
Blankets the sea
There is no beyond
Only fog
Descending on the water Read more

The mother does not love in broken parts
As one divided by the strains of self
But as the voice of nature’s purest art,
Divine in spark yet with the glow of health.
For love that speaks, “you are my very own”
Can cross with ease the gulfs that wind between
We island people biding time alone
And drowned within the dream’s unearthly sheen.
For love like this thinks nothing of exchange,
Instead it lavishes upon the shore
These waves of light and life that can arrange
To calm the world’s incessant ocean roar.
The mother loves with love that, whole, can bear
Those children who abide in her soul’s care.

You were always strong,
Sturdy as the oak
Whose roots reach deep
Winds that seize
And batter branches
Shake the surface only

Your courage was constant
A single flower’s stem,
Woven through rock
Stretching into sunlight,
Weathered by waves
Which foam and crash
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He saw himself a certain way
As he had always done
He saw himself with certain flaws
From which he could not run.

These flaws were buried deep below
That smooth and shining face
And lies were laced with laughter as
He lived within that place.

The self he saw was not enough,
Had never been and could not be,
And if another saw the same,
They too, he thought, would choose to flee.
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