Of My Own Making

A fish
But deflated;
A can
Of Busch Light

And I think,
How foolish of me

Sweet streams of blue
Sweet beauty beneath a placid reflection of my own face

Excitedly at first
I gazed into the muddled gauze
Flowing nearly to a stop

“What wonder,
What monuments what -” I say
“is that?”

No fish
No child of Earth
Yet shining tender in loose sediment
It is there and
There is no heart inside,
No wonderfully constructed calcium skeleton,

There it is
Beneath this reflection
Far more lively
Than my beloved river runners
And vastly more insidious

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Manuscript Help?

Ahoy all! So I’ve been working on a collection of poetry, titled ” Canyons, Such As These”. It’s based around nature and the human experience, encompasses something like 60-70 poems, maybe only 50, or less, I didn’t count and I’m not gunna bother. Would anyone be up fer giving it a read through? Pointing out any flaws, errors, offering yer own thoughts on it and that jazz? It’d be greatly appreciated and on the chance it gets picked up by a publisher I’d be happy to get you a copy free of charge.

Canyouns Such As These Cover Final

Fringe Discovery

Counted blessings as seeing the morning sun
Through ten feet of water contemplated swimming
Without the ability to comprehend stable space
Walked across lily pads tempting each to sink
With the slightest indent,

Muddled visions of low tide bringing forth sea shells
Fish scales washed clean and decomposing
Predicting growth as saturating skin till sediment ladened
Pruning exterior inconsistencies
Without care for environmental impact,
Shed dead cells hoping only underneath
Goodness will remain,
Release the ballast
Relinquish dated forms of weight
Memories muttered still remain
Traveling in modulated echoes
Faintly sometimes
Worn and unidentifiable
The past makes clarity further away
Dredge pocket change from sense thrown wistful
Pond bodies becoming wishing wells
To switch perspectives
Believe in the moment gravity shakes hands with hope
Strobing out then again-
A frog leaps from roots showing
Afraid to see the reflection of the place it lives in

Asunder

Sleep within us Great Bear
Ever shifting as we wander, oh beautiful
Land of unknown pockets and
Crevices brimming with innumerable
Narratives passing passing by,

Not a minute before ten
The car speeds seventy-five,
Landscapes and hands collapse in cacophony
Speaking a crossbred language of consciousness and abundance,
Stopping at a river coloured meadow unassuming
Stopping at a crosswalk downtown Traverse City
Nursing cups of tea noticing that familiar feeling
Of being somewhere previously unexplored,

Fervently kind, comfortably gentle
At sight this trio of denim and nylon would be
Placed in a coffee shop cloud cover casting threats of rain,
A map would have us be bountiful-
A brilliant constellation dotting the state,

Every footprint or photo taken
Becoming another piece set free still to Michigan’s wilderness-
A story a few years from now
Seen in a valley deep down a field
Between monoliths Dwarf Iris blooming
With the colour of our laughter

Driving home felt like night turning to day

To All Things Missing

Sunshine dances in three-four
Down red winds of the Day’s River,
Canary wine pedicels litter deciduous
Plateaus intoxicated if only, petals reach
For my tongue wanting to be swallowed or
Acknowledged a faulty reincarnation of chemical
Reactions, I’m human now nothing
More than ever, ambitions stifled
Reduced to making minimum
Wage and fighting each day
To stay awake,
Ran timeless together a brief escape
Encompassed again by distantly
Nostalgic surroundings, unable to bloom
Stripped of beauty, given skin and lungs and sent
To suffer here I lie spine pressed to chartreuse quilts
Hair whistling gently impersonating bluestem
Meadows dreaming restlessly suspended
In relief, speak loud oh wildflowers oh wild lovers of mine
And I unable to communicate, will listen

To Lean

Walking sticks carved by hand
Grown thoughtfully once
In a place abundant with life
And a well documented history of surviving,
Cut respectfully give to take- a piece of me
Left behind to seed and sprout
Syncopating ancestor and beating heart,

Wander unnoticed leave but still be remembered,
Little bit older
It’s a little harder to run

Dried for year or two tucked
Next to sage nest flowering alabaster,
Plucked when cracked
Worked with bramble talons scratched
Then scored give to take hands textured
Wrought field rock, leaves whittle flesh to form
Passion is pain is forgiveness is amelioration is repetition
Is hung to cure for a few days-finished
Well, at some point separation becomes inconceivable
Willow bough adds a year through law of conservation
And I’m twenty-one
But my knees are a broken foundation of sawdust