Life, love, Poetry from The Well, relationships

Shadow of the North Star

penns cave

In his eyes

there is no horizon in sight.

Two lush pools watch you

from the height of the moon’s

mother. Dirt from underneath

his feet clumps and crumbles

the same as the mascara clinging

to your lashes. Raindrops mix

easy with tears. The clocks spin

round as loyal blood passes

through cave after cave

of your insides –

in his eyes

sits a shadow of the North Star.

Poetry from The Well, Writing

I turn to the sun


I turn to the sun

wishing to be still and patient

as a candle that holds

packed in its weight

spirals and spirals

of perfumed air

that long to dance skyward


Oh to be lit

quick and easy

as the candle’s wick


To be cleanly contained

in a pretty jar

ready to cast a glow

across any wall


Instead I seep sideways

a puddle freshly chilled

after late summer’s rain


At least I’ve caught

this greasy rainbow

to steal light from the sun


It ripples in your eyes

Poetry from The Well

The Shape of the Place

Books stand steady in ragged towers

across the living room;

Behind them naked walls stare

pointedly at our new faces.

Cobwebs ripple from the corners of rooms

casting even grayer shadows,

relics of past lives.

The carpet’s tidy streaks beckon

our feet to leave prints trailing

up and down the halls.

Our stuff molds to the shape

of the place, but we’re quiet

as strangers in a foreign church.

Empty boxes bend together, a layered

tribute to past homes. The pearly white

mattress sinks into the carpet,

happy to be anywhere.

There’s nowhere to sit but the dining room

table, set with placemats and floral cloth napkins

and hot coffee, steaming and warming up the place.

Poetry from The Well


Opotoki 003


I wait in the flesh around the skeleton.

I tread between sturdy strings of islands.

I dance beneath beads that glitter

turning muscles that turn shadows

beneath the sun.


You’ve seen me in wrinkles,

or ink that seeps into your

sweaty palm.


A new résumé soon slips

away and crinkles,

translucent and pliant

as snakeskin,

perfect for a pair of

sturdy boots.

Poetry from The Well

Heart of Things II

Norman, aka The Tiny

Norman, aka The Tiny

I envy the rhythm of his days

that alternate between sun and shadow,

cool and warm, hungry and fed.


On Sundays he’s still with shining eyes,

no fear of the week ahead.


He believes he’s regal

as an orchid.


Do I drag through weekends,

eyes on the weeds, missing the

tree stretching for the sun,

roots reaching deep into

the heart of things?