The Ark of the Moon

The Course Of The Moon

the ocean of sky
is sailed by such lovely arks
lo! the moon embarks



A Poetic Response to our Occult Relationship with the Vegetable as found in “Nature” by Ralph Waldo Emerson

Ralph Waldo Emerson
Ralph Waldo Emerson

The greatest delight which the fields and woods minister, is the suggestion of an occult relation between man and the vegetable. I am not alone and unacknowledged. They nod to me, and I to them. The waving of the boughs in the storm, is new to me and old. It takes me by surprise, and yet is not unknown. Its effect is like that of a higher thought or a better emotion coming over me, when I deemed I was thinking justly or doing right.

Give me the Forest

give me the forest
the whispers
the wind

where only the keening call of the morrow
dare break the sacred calm of the sylvan now

the ritual of the soaring hum

give me the forest
the neglected
the free

where there are no rules
but the rooting scrawls of the cloven beast
unearthing pagan creeds
blasphemous guides to the dark
to the place where all the fears are found

all the magic

give me the forest
the sanctified
the holy

where the haunted howls of midnight
call to worship
to prayer
all the pious and profane

all the naked unbelievers who mock the baptismal of the moon

give me the forest
the ancient
the eternal

where the tattered persona is stripped away
ripped away and hung from the treetops
desperate semaphore signals for the dire

the damned

where the anima dances on fresh laid graves
sodden with tears of the holy

the helpless


An Ode To A Happy Little Spider

(Or, A Song For A Sad, Unfortunate Fly)

The happy little spider
Climbs the brightly colored wall
To spin a bouncy little web
While the playful blue birds call

Spinning spinning spinning
While humming a happy, cheerful tune
He builds for his tomorrow
In the corner of the room

As the sleepy evening sun
Settles softly into bed
The happy little spider
Spins his final thread

Still humming his cheerful tune
And oh so happy with his feat
He inspects his silky work
To ensure it’s all complete

With the chirping of the crickets
And with the crescent moon in ebb
The happy little spider
Snuggles in his web

As his sleepy eyelids close
Right before his dreams begin
He says his evening prayers
With a happy, thankful grin

For he knows that come tomorrow
When he rises from his bed
His prayers will all be answered
And his belly will be fed

Step Into the Grass

I’ll bare my feet
and step into the grass;
and, for the first time
since the sun
last set on my naked
I’ll prostrate myself
before the rising moon.

So much time has
passed since then,
since I last felt raw
moonglow on
my rusty skin,
that I have forgotten
how the breath of night
can upturn a sallow face.

Long ago,
when I could still remember
how to pause,
and how to listen,
and how to breathe,
for more reasons
than just to breathe,
I knew fields
and wood,
and calico aster;
I knew how to kneel,
and how to observe,
and how to bring myself to quiet.

And I knew,
without knowing,
that if I lay
on my back
beneath the reeds
and remained hushed,
as night clouds
floated by,
shadowed and silent,
that my Self
would simply fall



as ignorant,
as simple,
as pure,
and as free
as the flowing
freedom of sudden
Dogen insight—

a sudden insight of…



I’ll bare my feet
and step old and aching
into the caliginous balm
of the cool redemptive night.


from Poems From the River: a collection of reflections