The poems here are those that I like well enough (at the moment) to publicly admit are mine, even if I'm not exactly satisfied. I have hope for these in some way, hope that yet another revision will make things fall into place, hope that the unachieved idea will somehow appear out of the wreckage, perhaps hope that something will be enough to inspire a better work by someone else.

(These two poems were originally published in "Block's Magazine", Spring 1997.)

Muskingum Hilltop

This April air soothes, liquid
     at four in the morning,
when windows are dark,
     sidewalks empty,
and the half-grown leaves
     mutter gentle nonsense--

When the insomniac soul
     ceases treading,
But the first false dawn
     has yet to scatch
its faint pink expectations across,
     the perfectly dark horizon.

(For those interested in the process of writing poetry, you can check my essay using drafts of "Muskingum Hilltop" to discuss "The Poetry Process".)

Another Quest (And for those young writers who think writing ends, I just made major changes in the line breaks and form.....about 8 years after the poem was published.)

And dawn comes
with no revelation,
     no star, no grail,
     no waking freed from a dream;
no sleep-formed mist waits
for the sun to burn
illusion into epiphany.

The day wakes
with no recognition,
     no note of those
     who track the night
seeking one scent
of magic, one spoor
of power, one willing
god, ready to barter souls.

University Cemetery, Eugene, OR

Tumbled stones loose their names
     to the wind, names
borrowed from the dead,
      given to the rock,
and gone.

Another Dawn

Purple, pink, and ignorant, dawn
     comes with no revelation. Why
should I expect it now, just because
    I feel the need?

But what comes through
     this thin incision of color  
will be a dark child,
    the cold-eyed get of innocence
and the worm, and the get
     of the worm is always
hungry, winter-hungry,
     as when spring comes late,
or not at all.

Night Breathes

Night breathes beyond
the door, not so
tender, but tempting.

We do not
satisfy one another, but
we return.

So one of us hungers,
and one of us hunts.

Acceptance (written long, long ago)

Maybe I could bleed a little, but
that never worked before. Your thirst
is well documented; who
ever sated it?

Burnt offerings are out of style,
and I've forgotten
where the altar stands.
Besides,

lamb is expensive
down at the market, and
I don't believe
You're

that god I've read about.
He seemed to like sacrifices.
I don't.

Maybe if you like me
I could bleed
just a little.

A Visit With the Romantics (also from much younger days)

     Sometimes I visit my world's
edge
        and contemplate the fallen
bridge.  I sit, feet dangling
      in the widening abyss,
and watch unachored worlds
     drifting in the mist.