creepy_creek_by_bugonawall-d3dy26bThe first place I looked was where the spring rounded the grove of oaks and began to widen into a creek shadowed by sycamores. The moss grew thick on the bare spots of earth where the sun only reached in winter speckles between branches. It spread across the rocks—outcropped on the edges of the creek and sunk into the bank sloping up to a path the deer and raccoon spent their lives making. Continue reading “Arrival”


His Arrival

tamlinHis hair contains the texture of a long
morning in bed. I kneel beside his body,
my hands near his head, his breath already
in time with my world. Blood marks his forehead.
I rub it away, and like anyone’s mother
Smoothing the part, I let my hand linger
on his head, until I hear others near,
the ground shivering with the quick approach, Continue reading “His Arrival”


Finding the Place Where

locustOne day the question collides in you,
The curve of its newness slick behind
Your ear, mimicking that same arc,
Teasing you into listening, and this time,
To the way the wind whistles around
Your neck, the adjustment your feet
Make to the undulation of the earth
On this path not taken before to a place
Which tethers you without force
—Cool ageless stones lining
The threshold where you pause to drink
From a bowl of water that has appeared
To ease the burden of the new battle
Blushing its shame through your body. Continue reading “Finding the Place Where”



thanksgivingShe hasn’t had this many people in her house
since her husband died. She found his upper
dental plate in the whatnot drawer while looking
for a package of yeast. The floor is collapsing
and they’re all riding the beeline to hell.
Her aunt used to tell her uncles when they drank
too much: You’re in first class on the beeline to hell, Continue reading “Thanksgiving”



The Temptation of Sir Percival by Arthur Hacker
The Temptation of Sir Percival by Arthur Hacker

 “ . . . . . . . . . .. . . . . . one night my vow
Burnt me within, so that I rose and fled,
But wail’d and wept, and hated mine own self,
And even the holy quest, and all but her;
Then after I was join’d with Galahad
Cared not for her nor anything upon earth.”
–Percivale, Idylls of the King

All but her
Not for her Continue reading “Percival”


Poems for Tornado Victims

Moore photo, taken by Ken
Moore photo, taken by Ken

Some very well-meaning people are soliciting poems for a poetry anthology to sell to raise funds for Oklahoma tornado victims. Please don’t.

 Material Reason

 Say you manage to sell 100 of these books. The cost of making and shipping them will take up the biggest percentage of the money you get for the books. For a $15 book, you might make a profit of $1. Believe me—I know—I’ve done a lot of self-publishing. So, if you sell 100 books (very lofty goal), you will make $100. Continue reading “Poems for Tornado Victims”