Alien Green

On the beach
The night is hot.
She stands secretly
By the fire,
Burning every trace
From where she came,
Surrendering to earth
Beyond belief.

HerĀ  blood
Spills down
Upon the flames
To stain the sand
Where he once stood
Lit by another
More ancient fire.

She kneels down
To reclaim
Her lost peace
Before the alter
In smoke and ashes

Returning her new blood
To alien green!


Smith Creek, Montana

Smith Creek, Montana

Somewhere walking on Smith Creek trail, Montana summer 2012


A stream flows pink with blood,
A forest screams,
A village burns,
A tear seals a coffin.

A bride is dressed in white,
A baby is conceived,
Violets bloom in a front yard
Defying war.

A soldier yearns
For the gentle lotion
Of love
Only a wife can give.

A ray of goodness
Struggles against suppression,
Reaching, as truth limps away
On crushed toes.

Someone is sowing the seeds of hate,
The pain of it bruises the soul,
The rage of it prepares for
Perpetual resurrection.

Humanity staggers down a lonely street
Pushed by deaths chant,
A hungry child weeps,
Hate smiles upon the tears.

While a mother prays for food,
She hears rage preaching.
Somewhere the violets have disappeared
And so has a soul.

Stone Roses

stone walls and roses

A poem for my great-grandmother Hazel Applebee from England. She was the family romantic who grew up in England and loved to tell stories about castles.

Stone Roses

We stand
West of a whisper
Close to falling in love.
Twin souls
Bending over balconies
Stone roses blooming
In moon smoke.

We meet
The bitter and the sweet
At midnight
Lighting candles in the chapel
For the breath of fire
Born free
In the hanging space
Of saints.

The Merlot
On our lips,
As red as the berry
Before death,
Betrays us
As the heart
Betrays us
To love
Who ever
We must.

Ties charms
To rain drops
Looking for a chalice
The cottage teapot
Cracked brown with the age
Of our tears.
The magic invisible.

We are
Part of the harvest
That stains the fields
We plough.
We never
To the black sheep
Passing through
Our separate lives.

Years from now
We will walk
Through honeyed dust
Collecting seeds
Of a memory,
Of a path grown short
And shadows
Gone blind.

Crossing over
The silent fields
We look for
Grape vines
Spring weeds
Growing up fences
And black sheep
Passing by
Stone roses.

Remember Me


Sea Grape Vines on South Beach, Hutchinson Island, Florida

Remember Me

Old I am and tired,
Asleep beneath the sea grape vine.
Invisible between its roots
And shell rock middens,
This shore that once was mine.

This old house of sand
Has always been my refuge;
Is the only one that stands
In memory to the ships and battles
Fought against the sea.

This old house and I
Have heard the hollow din of gulls
As they fish in swells.
We have listened to the searching sounds
Of warning bells in storms.

We have kept the secrets
Of treasures and pirates’ pleasures,
And hid our eyes from fortunes spent
By men and governments
Against my brothers and the elements.

With hearts
Of courage, we have lived to see
That nature never meant for any man
To lose, to win, to challenge.
And in seeing, we learned to balance.

As you stand
before this house of mine, be honored.
Few men will keepers be.
Most slip between the shifting sands,
Mournful, losing, never learning.

Remember me

The first soul that lived here free,
And remember me
in the breath now blowing
Across the sea.
I am he who bends in life to wind.

I am Native.

So, Comes The Rain

Edge of America

Annie Humphery, award winning Native American recording artist, wrote the music and recorded this poem on her album Edge of America. Her music is available from Makoche Records. The song is available on the playlist on Edge of America. Many thanks to Annie for the beautiful music!

So, Comes the Rain

Dew slips
Through sky windows,
Damp fingers
The gardenia drinks
For her unborn
The sun waits
On stellar steps;
Earth hangs
In sweetness
For day songs.

Dew drops
Gather in veils
Making skirts
For coffins.
Time is caught
On a nail
Left in mill shavings.
Death pulses
And trembles
At the edge
Of gathering clouds.

So, comes the rain
With toxic kisses
Earth’s forgiveness.
Birds with acid voices
Sing of it.
The gardenia
Drops her bud offerings
To the God of it.
Coffins fill
With the black of it.

So, comes the rain,
With shades
Of death recycled.


I told you not to use bleach!

bee in clover


Will you dance with me
When the tiger comes

Stay and hear it purr,
Unbound, alive and free?

Will you

Stay to feel the rains caress,
To smell the scent of New World Clover
And taste its honey

The sweetness
Embracing you, embracing me.

We have endured the wars,
The prophets, and the politicians.

All that’s left
Is the rising dust and us.

Say yes-
For when the tiger comes
The dance will be
For love!

The Death of Merlin

basket of wine and grapes

This poem was inspired by “Idylls of the King” by Alfred, Lord Tennyson and the fascination writers have always had with Merlin.

The Death of Merlin

Vivian laughed…
It was her plan to trick him.

The ghost of Merlin sighs…
His surprise was the giving in

To the dancing heat
Of her soft glow…
Her charms that
Charmed him…
He who thought he owned
The charms of all a kingdom.
Her Prince she called him,
Playing with Love’s heart,
Convincing even he
That she adored him.

“Vivian,” his spirit cries
As he weeps beneath the evergreen.

Nothing but the angels
Hear his tears
That fall between
The chants, the benedictions,
The beat of Pagan drums.
His tears
That fall between
The fears that leap
With every rope that sounds
The monastery bell,
Or hangs a witch,
Completely dead, as well.

The bells were ringing when Vivian
Left him for a human dead.

In the buttoned shadows
Of the glen,
She stole his magic
With a breath of kisses
While the stars came out,
The moon shine smiled
And crickets chirped
Beneath the briars.

Even in death
His sadness thrives…

Hear it in the whisper
Of the winds,
In the chills that rattle
Up his ghostly spine,
Reminding him
Of all the magic
He once had
Then lost so suddenly
Because of giving in
To Vivian.

His ghost does testify
Love’s madness remains alive.

Even in death
This insanity
survives itself
Curled within
The root of every vine,
In the flower,
And all the grapes
To live for always
In the making of the wine.

wine and grapes