The form of free verse
is always your own
pickled words removed
from jars of salad;
Shaking a new spice
from old cabinets,
each day, month or year.
And if you could hand-make
measuring cups,
invent new units?
Then that is just what
Your form could be.

Bottle Caps

Bottle caps may be holding out on us,
Puckered, scrunched up, plastic stoppers, they are
Do you ever think bottle caps repress?

Bottle caps may be holding out on us,
Screwing so snugly against a glass rim
Stubbornly hiding away the contents.

Puckered, scrunched up, plastic stoppers, they are
Keeping us from the taste of the juice
The feeling, the smell – only colour gets through.

Do you ever think bottle caps repress?
For what is colour? the lie of the juice
That could be sugar water dyed orange.


She breathes ever so silently
rising and falling
where fast begins and slow never ends
she breathes ever so fitfully
racing while she slumbers.

Breathe – it will make her live
where otherwise, she appears dead
and cold and buried beneath
cottony white weaving.

Ever so silent is she
who seems to be snugly fitting
who seems to see by listening.

Over Coffee

A poem over coffee
Has to be
Drawn out
By tired minds.

A coffee over poetry
Has to be
Lured and baited
Alluringly, to mix
Poetry over coffee.

It must be
Stretched thin
As taffy
As time.

So accordingly –
Coffee over poetry.

Keep Your Treasure Chests

I keep treasure chests
of words to fill the rest of
what broken tongues left
when they left me behind
out on the path to nowhere.

Nowhere is a word
as well – one I know well
from treasure in my chest
from the cries of broken tongues
when you fill, but do not fit.

You fill, you breathe, you
break ancient molds from museums
and the fine for that
is eternal felony
left on a broken path.


The flowers that don’t bloom
hang their heads in disappointment
to the one that does
all of the blooming, pink as blood
in human cheeks.

The lone leafy star is watched from afar,
trembling in the gentle breeze
to be yanked by
all its roots, for all its glory
by human hands
by empty lands.

The Smattering of Care

Days bleed into nights
bleed into days
and the ritual of awakening
still remains
like the gentle moon
in a cloudless sky.

What remains is the pattern
the cluster of condensation:
fluffy, dappled purple in the air
and the pattering of rain
and the smattering of care
— light though it is.

It must remain
and return
again and again,
as blue nights stream away
to reveal another day.

Thinking in Print

I am working on a puzzle
People do not seem to like.
It is old, yet unknown,
Hammered and sewn.
I am working on the screws
That bore deep into teak-wood
Deep into tradition and the
Layman’s intuition.
I am working on the stitches
That staple fast the scraps
The silken to the leather,
And mountains on the map
Are shifting from their designated places.
I work on making unfamiliar faces.