Poems

Cross at Midnight
 
Bitten with frost by the ghost of night,
Tailored branches tremor at risen light.
Thawing veins on rigid bones
Stretch and shrink in Sunday cold.

Dawn and twilight turn the earth,
Moon and sun are death and birth.
Death in restless nights alive
Aloft a cross if birthed to die.

Once by the Pacific Coast Highway

Bends her dark blue back,
Lets her white hair fall,
Unbinds the curls upon her crest
And writhes into a somersault.
She rolls into a thunder roar,
Tumbles toward the shore,
Her twisting turns into a crawl
Unravels like opening palms
And rushing, dying-whispers;
Ghosts along the sand.

 
There are no Miracles
 
I left to find myself
In the cafe jazz
Of Paris, France.
But in skipping across the sidewalks
All I found was me.
No leaf piles on their streets
Were small enough to stop me
From cannonballing in.
No Van Gogh or Starry Nights
Impress me quite as much
As the painted nerves
Texturing my canvas skin.
Notre Dame is one of a kind,
But it could soon be built again.
There is art and architecture,
miracles in every country!
But the miracle is
There are no miracles
That can duplicate someone like me.

I welcome your thoughts!

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