This is the nook for National Poetry Writing Month forays and assays.
:: 13 April 2026 :: how spring does not in Boston
Warped by weather, winter’s sinking
I think the amaranth in the sky a disaster
And winter’s master
But here the snow like huddled monks
evensong-haggard, cluttered the flakes bunch up
And winter’s master.
But here the sky is slit by gold
The haze, I hear, is only atmosphere grown old
Warped by weather, winter ’s sinking.
But there the night like candle douser
And here my heart, monkish without chant.
Warped by weather, winter’s sinking—
And winter’s master.
::27 April 2026 :: vandalism (nb: all kinds half-cocked; less poem, more half-metred idea. ideas are very different things from poems)
hills round old city, and sky;
the birches bent and I--
but now it's blocked and blind.
they put up cinderblock and
taut wire,
chainlink, I think
in a choir; the wind singing in the trees
tangled in the wire, keens.
who ever told you vandalism
was destruction?
I find it all the time in civilized
construction.
