Tag: poetry

Dust falls like slow snow in my studio,landing on bristles, on the rim of a jar,on the carved lip of a cup that was never finished.Tools lie in driftwood piles: knives, ribs, wire,each one a fossil of a future I keep. I imagine soapstone singing under the blade,a thin, bright note—paper shavings at my feet—or … Continue reading Revisionist Poetry – Inventory of Maybe: Carver’s Kit, v.3

In the dusty corner of my studioa mountain of tools keeps vigil —brushes crusted like dried-up combs,a stack of canvases breathing dust.Soapstone waits, cool as a riverbone;clay sits in its bowl, damp and patient. My chest lifts when I imagine the first cut,the knife opening a soft, secret grain,fingers shaping, pressing, answering.I collect these things … Continue reading Revisionist Poetry – Promises in the Dust: Carver’s Kit, v.2

Basket low, strap whispering against my hip, I slip beneath the green roof—a cathedral of leaves where rain still talks in small, bright beads.The earth smells of old rain and folded paper: dark, readable grammar.I follow the thin language of trails — snail silver, deer scat, a mole's ridge —and there: a crown of ochre … Continue reading Revisionist Poetry – Fungal Bounty, v.3

Through the tangled undergrowth and damp earth,basket hooked on my forearm, I edge into the moss.Caps—amber, honey-laced, and bell-white—peek through leaf-sheen,each a coin half-buried in the forest’s palms. I step slow, nails tasting soil, watching for a tell:a curl of snail-silver, the pale dust of spores, a stem bruised blue.Poison hides in mimicry—painted red, a … Continue reading Revisionist Poetry – Fungal Bounty, v.2

The dandelion keeps time with the wind —a bright clock with its hands undone,a paper moon that peels itself apart:each seed a tiny bell, a hush that falls. They lift like hushes in a narrow sky,parachutes stitched of down and air,spinning away from the hollowed crownto write new margins on the field below. What remains … Continue reading Revisionist Poetry – Blowing Away, v.3

Dried pods cradle the late light,milkweed moons pinned to brittle twigs,paper lungs folded against the throatof a sky that holds its breath. Morning comes in a hush of wings —or perhaps it comes as patience breaking,a single seam unzipping: crack,the soft percussion of seed and silk. Then a small weather rises, a tremorof white, a … Continue reading Revisionist Poetry – Avian Essence, v.3. (a lyrical reimagining)

The dandelion — a yellow clock wound down,a pale globe drifting on the wind.Its seeds, small hushes with parachutes,spin off on invisible ropes. The bloom has emptied; gold loosened into air,a lace of stems in autumn’s thin light.Yet in that unbuttoning it plants insistence —a promise of soft landings, of green. We watch the white … Continue reading Revisionist Poetry – Blowing Away, v.2

Dried milkweed hangheavy on brittle branches,pods held like closed handsagainst a hush of sky. Then a seam gives — papery crack,a scatter: white skeins lift,not birds yet, but small weather,each seed a flake of wing. The twigs empty their maps;air fills with soft insistence.What looked like husk becomes migration,a sudden translation of the ordinary. Leave … Continue reading Revisionist Poetry – Avian Essence, v.2

The frame holds a tipped crate,its lip offering up colour —ochre, rust, lichen-green —a spill arranged by gravity, not grace. Each gourd is rendered patiently:thick ribs catching light,warted skins stippled like dry brushpressed into stubborn canvas. Shadow pools beneath them,cool blues cupping warm bellies,edges softened where the eye rests too long,sharpened where a knife of … Continue reading Revisionist Poetry – Autumn’s Fruit, v.4 (ekphrastic reworking for painters)

Crate overturned. Gourds tumble—humped, hollow, stubborn as small planets.Colors bruise—pumpkin, pewter, lime—skins pocked like weathered faces. Sun and rain carved them. Hands did not.They rattle when nudged, sound like loose teeth.Cold breath comes through the field; leaves scatter. I cup one: its skin is dry, warm where the day held it.No sermons. Just the taste … Continue reading Revisionist Poetry – Autumn’s Fruit, v.3