Thoughts to Ink, Page to Mark

I use a Baoer fountain pen.

When I finish writing, my fingertip

Is stained with ink to the swirling rivet.

The Bleeding Atmosphere

The sky turned scarlet

From a deep ocean blue.

Swirling clouds; floating atop

A bleeding atmosphere.

 

The Sun’s juvenile attempts

To stay above the sheets

Back-lit the tents

And early starlight seeps.

Stepping Stone Moon

I walk a landscape

Of glass, concrete, grass, and

Raspberries by the carton.

 

Decorated by graffiti,

Pour Boy Pub stands South of Barton.

Cigarettes wink like fireflies.

Stepping Stone Moon

I walk a landscape

Of glass, concrete, grass, and

Raspberries by the carton.

 

Decorated by graffiti,

Pour Boy Pub stands South of Barton.

Cigarettes wink like fireflies.

The Daisy Field (III/III)

We fell from Heaven

And struck every branch

On the way down.

The impact left a crater,

Half the diameter of a New England town.

With no direction I dream

Of rambling on.

Lucidly waking, scrambling for

Planes, trains, or bus.

Filling my hiking bag, hand encompassing a compass.

The Boogeymen (II/III)

Walking down the concrete

At the witching hour’s peak.

Heavy with twilight.

The rain for the day

Has lifted and the air is warm.

The People We Meet (I/III)

I float down the concrete.

Biting on an apple,

Chewing over

The previous night.

Beer,

Steak,

Condos on Front Street;

Financed by taxed poker winnings.

Stepping Stone Moon

I walk a landscape

Of glass, concrete, grass, and

Raspberries by the carton.

North York Poetry

The sun beats down

With bated baton

Upon a North York community.

Rattling the Black Walnut tree

Which peppers the back canopy

With meaty green seed.

Thoughts to Page, Ink to Mark

I use a Baoer fountain pen.

When I finish writing, my fingertip

Is stained with ink to the swirling rivet.