No Man Is An Island Entire To Himself

KONICA MINOLTA DIGITAL CAMERAOff of a far and lonely Northern shore,
An island sits,Jutting out of the waves by the high tide,
Squatting on the sand at low.
Arctic storms rail against its sides,
And hurricane winds rake their claws against its face.
The island is a rocky point,
Bereft of any earthen flesh
Save for a small oasis of green
At its very peak,
Where sits a small pine
That reaches out for the mainland,
With its branches, in supplication.

This island looks to be alone,
Ravaged by water, wind, and dust,
Scoured grey and grim,
Slowly aging, thirsting for the main.
Yet, if you peer at its feet,
At the low tide,
Small pools of life look up to their leader,
That keeps them sheltered from the cruel elements.
Anemones, barnacles, crabs, limpets, and starfish,
All gather in vibrant colours,
Purples, reds, oranges, greens, and blues,
At the granite’s gray-scale base.

And as your eyes rise to the top of the monolith,
You will espy, at the foot of that small and strangled pine,
A small nest,
Where a tiny wren has made her home,
Sheltered from the gales,
Hidden from the raging rains and bitter cold,
Kept safe by the roots of the protective arbour.

She was buffeted about by a winter storm, one year,
Flung far from her home in warmer climes.
Tired, wing-sore, wind-worn,
She alit the shoulders of that stern island,
And found the pine,
Its branches reaching for the mainland.
The wren reached her wings out to the island,
And the two connected,
In need of each other,
Whilst the storm rallied about them.

The island at first doubted
Whether the wren would stay, and
Be tempted back to her proper place,
Abandoning the rock to its lonely thoughts.
The wren simply nestled deeper into the roots and rock,
Determined not to give up her safe abode:
For a snug and dry home,
Solid and supported,
Comforted and cared,
Once found,
Is worth to keep.

And so if you go to that wild and far-flung corner,
Of the Northern coast,
And find that lonely isle,
You will espy that loyal wren,
And know that each has the other.

Me Boyo

Juno an' tha' Paycock“Well, me Boyo,”
I says to me lad,
“What are yer thoughts,
An’ what makes ya’ glad?

“When ya’ wake in the morn,
And the perspect’, tis hard,
What’s at hand,
to ease tha’ guard?

“When yer hands are tied,
by things higher than ya’,What’s the ticket
Ta pry it outta Tha’.”

My lad, he says ta me,
“Trust in time,
Tha’s the ticket,
Otherways, a sticky wicket.

“Live by rules,
Set out by sinners,
Life’s na’ made
Fer beginners.

“An’ find someone,
Ta’ hold yer core –
Keep it safe,
not worry anymore.”

My lad, he do be wise,
An’ provide me wi’ sage advise.
But I’ll be the judge of ‘im,
Before I listen,
Ta’ tha’ saucy vixen.

Feall (Betrayal)

Thrice denied by Saint PeterSt. Peter Statue in Antigua, Guatemala
By the time the rooster crowed,
I stood shackled, bruised, and bleeding,
Immobilized by betrayal,
Head bowed, shoulders stooped, core broken.


The sting of the whip,
Welcome relief to the knowledge
That the one to whom I was closest
Chose to turn his head and heart away from me
At the very moment that I needed him most,
My suffering, my pain, unwelcome reminders
Of a promise made in a happier times.

Executioner's Block in Cartagena, Columbia
There will be wailing, and gnashing of teeth,
But I will be cleansed by the light of day,
And you entombed in the darkness.



The Pull of the Abyss

A door is open,
And the abyss yawns before it.
One step, and I will fall right in:


Head first, eyes wide open,
One hand outstretched to the other side,
Where you lean against another doorway,
Cigarette dangling,
Cynically examining the drifting ash,
Snowflakes on the updraft from the Lethe below.

I am determined to find the fisherman’s ferry,
And, unlike Orpheus, I will not look back.

Animal Thoughts Part 1

Two birds sat together.South eastern oregon
One turned to the other:
What makes the world turn?
The mad hatter,
The other replied.

Why hats,
Bird one asked?
If the hat fits the rat,
You see,
And the rat is best at skivvying.

What about the lead?
With any luck,
Bird two said,
It’ll get ‘em dead.


The sea otter is a curiosity,South oregon driftwood
Who, to eat his dinner, sits atop the rolling sea;
And uses a rock
to slam his clam,
Atop his furred tummy.


Why, pray sir, do you raise your arms at me?South oregon beach
Because you appear to be running carefree,
And my carapace is rather fragile
When contending with a Labrador’s smile,
And your paw about to step on me.