memories of madness
clutch the dusk
with dulcet hands
pluck their limbs
up from the surface
plunge their heads
above the sand
shrugging off
the dust and rubble

there are giants in these lands

lumb'ring titans
etched in thunder
calmly tear
the earth asunder

still my soul
in silent wonder

while these wandering colossi
scrawl their names
across the sky


through smoke and spray
the boatswain spies
six tall ships
on the horizon
lying in wait
the beating bell
clangs its cry
and lo, our vessel
leaps to life

canvas creaks in the breeze
frayed ropes sway
to the cadence
of breaking waves
and heaving seas
I slave in the belly of the beast
belching fire
to tame these enemies

cannons clatter and crash
followed by the slow scrape
of rolling recoil
forth and back
rush and release
onward I toil
amidst the splintering wood
and sweltering heat

the salt air scent
cool and crisp
the bitter breath
and prickling skin
the lurching deck
slippery with death

until at last
in the aftermath
a familiar face
and an old friend’s
slow embrace
dragging me down to the depths



eyes split wide
the waking world
beneath the bones
a lone shiver
lingers on the skin

timid feet on timber
limp the mile
from bed to bath
where in the glass
a stranger grins

the faucet coughs
a rusted rain

the day has been disrobed


then off to venture
verdant lands
along some wild
and winsome road

until a grim
and naked fear
of paths unfaced
at last takes hold

when gusts a rare
and raveling wind
to conjure up
some higher love
than even I
can comprehend

to reach the end
or yet to stray

‘til only dust and dreams remain


‘cross mountains she glides
my Herculean queen

on her surface winter rests

her labored breath ghosts the glass
her gravid shadow shrouds the land

stars like pale irises
rim her wrinkled visage

I sing to her in Empyrean waves
to sway her swelling belly

cloaked in grief
she cannot hear me
drifting in an errant sky

as she brightens
I fade

An earlier version of this poem appears in the Promises To Keep poetry collection.


morning breaks on ancient graves
and aging mourners bent by cold

ashes from a savage sun
fall fresh upon the twilit world

wintry hours wreathed in snow
shatter now that ephemeral hope
of elegy etched in stone


teetering piles
and toppling stacks
dusty shelves crammed
with musty companions
and well-worn comrades

some are crisp
just begging to be cracked
others are lovingly
bruised and battered

and everywhere
the wondrous scent
of new paper
and old leather

so many worlds
so many adventures

I'll spend my days
buried in pages
and not count it wasted time