It is often necessary for me to write a prayer. I’ve done it a few times over the years while I was drowning in life. This one was composed after visiting a website with hundreds of positive affirmations. I scanned over them and assembled one. Its never occurred to share any nor have I ever tried to publish them. Because who…? But cleaning up and filing away old notebooks, I decided to share this. {God is the Shepherd of my restless mind} God is the shepherd of my restless

It is often necessary for me to write a prayer. I’ve done it a few times over the years while I was drowning in life. This one was composed after visiting a website with hundreds of positive affirmations. I scanned over them and assembled one. Its never occurred to share any nor have I ever tried to publish them. Because who…? But cleaning up and filing away old notebooks, I decided to share this. {God is the Shepherd of my restless mind} God is the shepherd of my restless

April being National Poetry Month… But I’m not tripping. Wasn’t even intending to attempt a 2014 poem a day for 30 days challenge… But its happening anyway. The last poem I posted, A Small White Bottle, triggered a shower of poems and writing over the last several days. A pleasant surprise. I re-wrote S.W.B. which is to say after a couple of days I sat in my apartment and read it aloud to myself. I then promptly took Elmore Leonard’s advice that if it sounded like writin

April being National Poetry Month… But I’m not tripping. Wasn’t even intending to attempt a 2014 poem a day for 30 days challenge… But its happening anyway. The last poem I posted, A Small White Bottle, triggered a shower of poems and writing over the last several days. A pleasant surprise. I re-wrote S.W.B. which is to say after a couple of days I sat in my apartment and read it aloud to myself. I then promptly took Elmore Leonard’s advice that if it sounded like writin

I hadn’t seen her in more than 20 years. I had to ask for a hug. She paused, as to think: Did I pack one? She looked the same; her body neither overstuffed nor sickly. Her hair is different. Long & sinuous. And she’s still sexy. Over breakfast, the great shifting of gears of family drama. All centered around her families only boy and his pack of dogs. He was the last to sit at the table, making long strides with New Girlfriend in his wake. He hugged me, auxillary

I hadn’t seen her in more than 20 years. I had to ask for a hug. She paused, as to think: Did I pack one? She looked the same; her body neither overstuffed nor sickly. Her hair is different. Long & sinuous. And she’s still sexy. Over breakfast, the great shifting of gears of family drama. All centered around her families only boy and his pack of dogs. He was the last to sit at the table, making long strides with New Girlfriend in his wake. He hugged me, auxillary

Here is how we whistle for hammer head sharks –steely torpedoes awaiting to be soft served in bowls of sweet meat we won’t finish before dark– let them swim to a shoreline of 1000 suns curved like so many jaws, abutments of bone between now & minutes shook hence in tremors before this island volcanos elegant quake. You plow & toe the black baked soil, flick ashes shore while I keep losing gravity & waves exhale & spray tracing the beach & its foam shifting spine, sa

Here is how we whistle for hammer head sharks –steely torpedoes awaiting to be soft served in bowls of sweet meat we won’t finish before dark– let them swim to a shoreline of 1000 suns curved like so many jaws, abutments of bone between now & minutes shook hence in tremors before this island volcanos elegant quake. You plow & toe the black baked soil, flick ashes shore while I keep losing gravity & waves exhale & spray tracing the beach & its foam shifting spine, sa

There are hospitals where hands are a type of medicine I smooth the tremulous lines along your temples with my palm In these cellular rooms, bodies are worshipped in religions of disrepair We burden our mouths to carry more than language I align your tremulous temples in the rooms of my palm There are hospitals where medicines are better than hands. In these mouths, bodies become religions and are worshipped with tongues. We trust our language to carry more than we unde

There are hospitals where hands are a type of medicine I smooth the tremulous lines along your temples with my palm In these cellular rooms, bodies are worshipped in religions of disrepair We burden our mouths to carry more than language I align your tremulous temples in the rooms of my palm There are hospitals where medicines are better than hands. In these mouths, bodies become religions and are worshipped with tongues. We trust our language to carry more than we unde

Memorial Lighthouse, Trinidad Civic Club, Trinidad, Ca.  — JCagney Bone spur of the lighthouse Excavated from the hillside By diligent shovels of weather Stands purified under the administration Of the sun; overseer to an ocean Of scales flashing white and green. An old man sits at a bench shepherding the wet painting of the horizon. As we approach, he pulls the loaded rifle of his terrier closer to his chest. They await what has already arrived— The radiant ignition of ocean

Memorial Lighthouse, Trinidad Civic Club, Trinidad, Ca.  — JCagney Bone spur of the lighthouse Excavated from the hillside By diligent shovels of weather Stands purified under the administration Of the sun; overseer to an ocean Of scales flashing white and green. An old man sits at a bench shepherding the wet painting of the horizon. As we approach, he pulls the loaded rifle of his terrier closer to his chest. They await what has already arrived— The radiant ignition of ocean

Hold the Phone – Jcagney There used to be one in every house with its own end table or altar. ours was a wire stand crammed with phone books– the first internet. if you remembered to clean it you’d wipe it down like a baby – its umbilical cord would braid itself over all the stories & lies transmitted— You’d have to stand on a chair to let the long cord unkink ; the handset a satellite spinning weightless above the rug. you could slow dial if you didn’t want to talk bu

Hold the Phone – Jcagney There used to be one in every house with its own end table or altar. ours was a wire stand crammed with phone books– the first internet. if you remembered to clean it you’d wipe it down like a baby – its umbilical cord would braid itself over all the stories & lies transmitted— You’d have to stand on a chair to let the long cord unkink ; the handset a satellite spinning weightless above the rug. you could slow dial if you didn’t want to talk bu

After Life with God – Jcagney The other side of the white light is a stage light. God’s monologue subsides as the last breath eases from my chest.  Relatives gone on before now sit in audience cheering my entrance.  God’s hair is a tsunami shadowing a beach, cresting over remarkable brown eyes.  He’s in a tweed 70’s leisure suit & yes, he smokes & listens with his body.  He’ll erupt in convulsive laughter, smoke pulsing from his throat in volcanic exhaust, his chest giggling

After Life with God – Jcagney The other side of the white light is a stage light. God’s monologue subsides as the last breath eases from my chest.  Relatives gone on before now sit in audience cheering my entrance.  God’s hair is a tsunami shadowing a beach, cresting over remarkable brown eyes.  He’s in a tweed 70’s leisure suit & yes, he smokes & listens with his body.  He’ll erupt in convulsive laughter, smoke pulsing from his throat in volcanic exhaust, his chest giggling

Who was it said Poems are never finished, they’re just abandoned? I begin writing a poem after I assume some understanding about or appreciation over what I’ve just seen, experienced or remembered.  Sometimes the poem comes out in one chunk and I let it rest for a while, then go back and tidy it up:  Remove, add, clarify. Sometimes there’s a poem that stems from a experience and I don’t know how to express it.  Take this Psalm for Mother Sims, for example.  I love the memory

Who was it said Poems are never finished, they’re just abandoned? I begin writing a poem after I assume some understanding about or appreciation over what I’ve just seen, experienced or remembered.  Sometimes the poem comes out in one chunk and I let it rest for a while, then go back and tidy it up:  Remove, add, clarify. Sometimes there’s a poem that stems from a experience and I don’t know how to express it.  Take this Psalm for Mother Sims, for example.  I love the memory