A Harrowing Harvest

thresherman's sledge


These tines, thresher’s sledge

gouging flesh, tearing

chaff from stalk in one

smooth strike. Plundering

periphery has

its benefits; as

empty hulls fall to

the earth, seeds awake

to freshly ploughed soil.


As the Wheel Turns

yellow aspen (1)


And the colour wheel cranks out

its liturgy – opposites 

make the best bedfellows,

draw out the richest blooming.


So too this heart, when double

crushed, rises atmospheric

to negate the blow. So too 

this spirit, pinned to velvet

specimen case, dead carcass

to be pitied, inspected,

finds truest freedom within

its prison walls, flying high

above those who would take it

captive, coerce dignity,

boxing it in mere metal

and glass. Deepest pain reflects

truest beauty, once redeemed.


And the colour wheel cranks out

its curriculum – bluest 

skies display the purest gold.




Crooked, Small was ushered in,

Crooked,  Small grew crooked skin;

Crooked, spine housed crooked soul,

Small saw Straight, desired Whole –

Crooked, Small bowed low to Great,

Crooked, Small lost crooked weight;

Small now grows in rescued bark,

Reclaimed wood, destined for Ark.




When snowy weight collapses hope,

When freezing breaks the means to cope,

When winter winds fray final rope,


When friend becomes the enemy,

When weakness bends a shaking knee,

When soul’s great thirst is to fight free,



Stand firm, then…’

That Dang Slang

You can be a stick-in-the-mud, and rain on my parade,

Or pelt me with more lemons as I make my lemonade;

 In trying to hold my horses, you’re wet blanket to my growth,

And pooping on my party while my heart is under oath.

You thought you’d burst my bubble when the dust settled for good;

But your hand was in the cookie jar, so now – knock on wood –

I’ll cool your jets by blooming well, rising above it all,

‘Cause where there’s smoke, there’s fire, and I built a firewall.

You bragged that I’d be pushing daisies, six feet under sod,

But I’ll not slow – watch me pass ‘Go’ – I won’t wait for your nod!


Image courtesy of Ooggetuige

The Seed, discarded by a bird, found niche in rough-hewn brick;

Alone, despised, forsaken, her tears made footing stick

As softened by the salty stream, one root-tip found a home;

Cinder was Seed’s resting place, and mortar her first loam.

Root fought hard to worm her path through nerves of stone-work steel;

Rain’s torrential fists repelled with blows that made her reel.

Wind and sun both joined the feud, assaulting her in turn;

One tried to wrench Root’s tender growth, one sought to levy burn,

But Root resisted, holding fast, and sent up her first Shoot;

Shoot bore Stem, and Stem bore Leaf, in fair green birthday suit.

Mortar lent no healthy fare, so Leaf produced her own;

Photosynthesizing bread, to add green flesh to bone.

Now she boldly clings to brick, when rain makes mortar mud;

She knows that next in line to come is tender flower-bud…

My 90 -10 Split

Image courtesy of DukoPhoto

My ship is 90% submerged, rolling in waters right up to my neck;

My soul is 90% inebriated, drunk on sorrow that covers the deck.

My heart is 90% broken up, reeling from blow after blow on its door;

My path is 90% washed out, carried to sea with a wind-blasted roar.

But that means –

10% of my ship is afloat, enough for my Captain to steer my poor boat;

I’m 10% sober, and that is enough to choose not to drink of the sorrow’s rough moat.

A full 10% of my heart is okay, so use it I will to recover my wounds;

I’m 10% accurate in finding my course, so after corrections, I will be home soon…