Like crows

we picked shiny things off the ground.

A crushed beer can.

A dime.

A rusty car emblem.

How did you spot them so easily,


with only one eye?

We collected broken things

that no one else wanted.

Said we’d fix them one day,

use them for something.


Two crows sit outside my window.

They caw at dawn

which lights my room

full of broken things.


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A Seed

Don’t let me burn.

Plant me in soil

after the last frost

Let me become the grass,

the wildflowers,

a mushroom.

Let me grow.

I will continue to give.


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What Do We Have?

Tulips have bloomed in the Netherlands.

What do we have?

Bare branches.

Flooded beds.

Rotting, hollow stems.


The Earth is still brown

but the blue is returning to the sky

and the ocean moves freely.

We don’t have floral breezes

but we have the frog song from the marshes.

We have the sound of wetness seeping into the ground.

We have these grey trees

trying their hardest

to receive all the earth and sun give.

This Is Not Poetry

Wouldn’t it be

such a bore


we all followed

the same format?

Leave it to the documents,


and reports.


Poetry is not

bureaucracy, it changes

as emotions do.


As art changes.

As humankind changes.

As the world changes.


That is life.

You may not agree

but why do we seek to create strife

with those who see



Dirt Eaters/Gold Eaters

Under the golden sun

the harvest becomes ripe and ready.

The apples are crisp.

The tomatoes are juicy.

The carrots are flecked with dirt

and are wiped off on the grass.


In a brown leather chair,

someone sits leisurely.

The light is low and soft.

The tobacco is sweet and heady.

The champagne is flecked with gold

and sparkles in its fluted glass.