Monday, August 25, 2014


The shutters are open,
there are no curtains.

Stop.  Look through the dark pane.
Find simple sanctuary without icon or lace,

a congregation of one, who has forgotten
how to pray.  Come.  Listen.

Take up residence, sweep away the dust;
expose silent eyes, deep wits.  

Light a candle.  Line the sills with potted geraniums.
Stay.  Long enough to see them grow.

Be the sexton who makes supper of thoughts,
whisks a fluffy omelet of the past.

Sing.  Something that sounds like a hymn,
what ships and stones might say.

Dote on my still possible body,
the soft secret structure of worship.

tk/August 2014

R.A.D. Stainforth takes my words to the next level ...

Sunday, August 17, 2014


I return.  Two if by sea.
God-force without a compass.
Not for homesickness.
I have no real place.

The rail acts as stylus.
Dirty crackle.  Hiss of anticipation.
I board a north boat with lanterns.  
Gulls in my wake.

The edge of the world knows
the songs of my heavy-booted fathers.
Cliffs rise to welcome me.
Oceanic.  Colder than pewter.

Wyeth skies find a home
on the other side of the Atlantic.
I see an unknown soldier in the clouds,
covered with a greatcoat.  

He whispers.  Mainland.
Welcomes me with a wheelhouse.
Offers cake.  A pillow for my head.
Shows me the next bend in the road.

tk/August 2014 

*photo: Yell Sound, Shetland, 2014, by R.A.D. Stainforth 

Sunday, August 10, 2014


We wear a zebra suit.
Taunt cats at the zoo.

You are the head.  Tell the joke
about black and white and red. 

(Embarrassed)  I shake our tail.
Rattle the cage with our hind legs.

They pace.  Look at us.
A sandwich.  Chain gang of two. 

Bow their heads.  (Say grace)
by his stripes we are healed.

Warning sign.  Loose letters.
Beyond this:  the point of no return.

(Without our glasses) squinting
gets us nowhere.  And everywhere.

We wear a zebra suit.
Share some striped pajamas.

tk/August 2014 

Charming read by R.A.D. Stainforth...ever so slight smile at the end...

Sunday, August 3, 2014


There is exotic in repeating,
pouring  in a censer.
Swinging lasso, carefree.

It floats circular, heady, hypnotic;
pollinating everything open in my wake.  
Ritual of joy.

This time, I am brave enough
to leave nothing unsaid;  the whole
makes cosmic sense. 

Orbed.  Embraceable.

I am compelled to whisper it in round. 
A chant.  Maybe a prayer,
on the brink of a spell. 

tk/August 2014

Hypnotic read by R.A.D. Stainforth ...