In my garden I am often ankle deep in peace
And my head is fleshed within the mind of God
When each day I root out weeds and dead growth
I remember the work still to do with sins remaining
Lying in the regions of roots and worms and serpents
And my soul feels the pull of the garden’s twin in paradise
And knows it can’t stay here much longer in the mud below
Suspended outside together with the poisoned demons
Breathing the same air as the malevolent hemlock
Swinging to the wicked rhythm of a perverse dark breeze
In the abandoned corner of this twin garden hiding
Hanging heavy in the land of the Harlot and the Unclean.
HOURGLASS
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
sand escapes
from the hourglass of our lives—
each grain a ghost
the future thins
to a horizon line, pale
as bone-bleached shells.
time shifts the shoreline—
what was solid becomes sea,
what was sea becomes stone.
I stand ankle-deep
in the receding now,
watching footprints dissolve.
oldest grains glow
clearest: childhood sunsets,
first loves, last goodbyes—
all sharpened by loss,
all softened by the slow grind
of what remains unsaid.
The hourglass whispers:
“Every fall is a rising
in another light.”
Alligators break the dark circular water,
later, a guy with a big belly and low belt
will grandstand while throwing half-frozen
chickens at them.
This early I’m still surfacing,
last night my legs got jailed
behind lidless dreams; the back of my neck
tingles now, as old sweat refries itself.
I’m waiting for the ‘man’.
A breeze combs damp hair
while I make-out with a Michelob
inside a soda bottle.
He’ll show-up in sockless Crocs,
baggies bulging
from the pockets of
his camouflage shorts.
I and Frick and Frack over there
fake an interest in the egrets
as the morning sun flickers through
snowy spread out, translucent wings.
The ankle-deep mist rises
revealing clearly
that we are simply here
as another form of park life,
waiting to be fed
one more far-out evening.
Woodsmoke, Laughter, and Warmth
Sunlight slanting through pines,
the creak's cold whisper,
a child's echo of laughter.
Bare feet on smooth stones, slick with moss.
Ankle-deep in melted snow, a shiver on the skin.
The taste of distant winter, sharp and clean.
Splintered light on the water's surface,
a fleeting mirror of a girl's wonder.
Flickering flames,
a circle of warmth,
faces I know by heart.
The mountain's breath a memory.
Drying by the fire,
the scent of woodsmoke clinging to a wet t-shirt.
Laughter, a low hum of stories,
spun in the smoke that rises and disappears.
Hands held out to the heat,
the red glow on fingertips.
The day a perfect circle, beginning and ending here.
A final, deep breath before the chill returns.
My Fantasy Holiday
Another grey and dismal day so damp
To work I trudge along the streets of old
Through puddles ankle deep I grisly tramp
All muffled up, clothed to fight the cold
Each day I pass the poster on the wall
Inviting me to far off tropic isle
A place I’ve never been so can’t recall
But I imagine and within me comes a smile
Today I linger for a moment there
And flinch, when I let out a shout
Maybe a trick of light but I could swear
The boats upon the sea, bobbed about
Warm waves are gently lapping round my feet
As silently the sea rolls to and fro
On bare shoulders, burning sun does beat
For once my body feels all a glow
I run along the beach far and wide
Great fortresses I build upon the sand
Lay on a bed of leaves and by my side
Exotic fruits and drinks are close at hand
I look into the bluest of blue skies
Beneath the shading leaves of the palm
I dream as if asleep with open eyes
In this place so peaceful and so calm
Across my feet the icy waters flow
Down my neck, rain begins to drip
The picture fades, I know it’s time to go
One day I’m sure I’ll really make that trip
For Dylon Song Tribute contest
Sponsor: Oliver Mckeithan
Written on: 05/22/2025
Inspired by Mr. Tambourine Man
The roads yawn in their speech,
on this uncharted path tonight.
Clocks hang on walls like ghosts,
their hands spinning aimlessly.
Somewhere,
beyond the velvet murmur of the lamp’s glow,
my feet shuffle like old leaves,
sashaying to an illusory jingle.
Its carefree melody swirling with the wind,
jangling the bones of my memory.
I follow not because need summons me,
but because idleness has become a deafening sound,
since I am a stranger to sleep,
and the restless heartbeat keeps asking.
Guide me to the edge of oblivion,
where the horizon unstitches,
and the future pours into the present.
Transport me beyond reason,
where untethered thoughts can float,
mid the whispers of the tide.
I want to be in the in-between of music notes,
on the cusp before the sound,
at the pause before the waves break.
And then,
when the day begins to rust,
and the tide teases apart my shape
Let me wade behind you,
ankle deep in a strange joy
still wandering….
Where the tide licks a sandy beach
a running ripple
thins to wash a ring of rounded pebbles -
there, a muddy ribbon
trickles through brine rinsed trinkets
surged up as a slosh of time
from the oceans depth.
Here be the bones of seahorse dragons,
and the beached and bloated
pods of marine algae,
Fractured mollusk shells splinter,
carapace and claws swell
in a mutual dross,
a trawled-up flotsam
tossed upon
low spin drifting waves.
A sculptured driftwood
expressed into mythic forms
anchors its art where the wind combs.
Sometimes coins, both new and old, surface
to be pocketed once more.
Obscure metallic treasures knuckle
and poke-mark the shoreside
with their unanswered questions.
I walk an ankle-deep dawn light
shipwrecked on my own shores edge.
A seagull's homeless cry
keeps me fishing for new depths.
Tortoise looked, couldn't see, hare disappeared.
Only him, tortoise win, hare reappeared.
the sportsmanship that
honesty competes often
eludes the cheaters
The Word of Life is joy everlasting.
In the game of life, we win, lose, and die,
patterns reasoning; be glad we're living.
Living for the trice, losers don't comply,
trifles our distractions are ankle-deep.
Count on time won't add up you'll meet Grim Reap.
Speed misjudged its breaks; odds knew--widow's mite.
Live yond your means, who are your family.
A hard worker, big spender, works in spite,
Jones styles for their smiles, save one--their envy.
Live simple, live smart unlike ducks and drakes,
odds knew--widow's mite; speed misjudged its breaks.
The hare expected to win and the tortoise knew he would lose--too much and too little of themselves, until fate intervened.
One sat under the apple tree until an apple fell on its head, and the other was on top of that tree, simply going out on a limb.
B-The Word of Life is joy everlasting-a
E-In the game of life, we win, lose, and die-b
T-patterns reasoning, be glad we're living-a
T-living for the trice, losers don't comply,-b
E-trifles our distractions are ankle-deep.-c
R-Count on time won't add up you'll meet Grim Reap.-c
Sky merging with earth
An illusion called horizon
Life merging with pleasures
An illusion called success
Square meals and a cozy sleep
Minus craving for endless keep
Loss and gain howsoever deep
Contentment is a joy with sweep
When one amasses the heap
Lure for more and more beep
Fears, alarms and qualms creep
Worries, not the serenity steep
Life is lovely and precious, not cheap
Delight and fulfillment one may reap
With tranquility and calm, not the leap
Life’s blue waters are not ankle-deep
I took off my shoes
and stood ankle deep
in the shallow reach and run
of the waves. I felt a sudden
cold, the slow sink of my feet
into wet sand, the gentle pull
of the outgoing tide,
then a tickle of seaweed
as it tangled around my shin.
There are moments like this
when you become the sum
of your own sensations.
The world was being taken in
through my feet, sipped joyously
as if each nerve was savoring
whatever came in contact
with my skin. It was electric.
I was motion, the deep throb
of breaking waves finding
a resonance, a seashell
imprinting an image of itself
through my heel, the freedom
of wiggling toes. I felt as if
I was being lifted
by a strange buoyancy until
the cold spread its numbing chill
and I stepped out of the water
back into my shoes,
into my own small footprint.
Captain cook
I built a ship in a vale of stones and thorny bushes
It took 24 years and more to set sail on a dream
boat to China
I met her on the blue sea of Malaga, sailed on her
til she was 71, sought refuge in coastal waters
anchorage in the town of Mandalay
Deep sea ships have limited sails from port to port
are not allowed to stray from the chart, set by the man
in charge; every ship looks the same, is practical and sleepless.
Not. once did they let me be in charge; go back to your galley, you mad cook, they bellowed, you will only collide with the Dogger bank.
I built my ship, four decks, and a bridge
too far from shore to be of annoyance to anyone
The locals called me Captain Brave Heart, the man who
cleared the dale of snakes.
I'm tired, it took so long to be a slayer of words
ankle-deep in sad rejections.
I'm the master of my literary refusals, words
to feed the flame of elimination
And here I am,
jeans rolled up to the knees,
barefoot, wading the shallows
with arguments tugging
at my feet, pulling me out
as if answers were waiting
beyond where the water
lifts into breaking waves,
the calm on the end
of a rip.
The incessant call
washes unrest across
my feet and seeps into where
it tunes itself to the notes
of a longing. Plucked by waves,
the plaintive sound amplifies
inside every cell.
There are times when
the sadness becomes almost
too much.
Then the sun bursts gold
and fans out its rays
into the evening sky
and everything I see,
hear and sense become
voices and shiny instruments
and I realize my lowly feet
are ankle deep in the playing
of an eternal song
even though, for me,
it's but an evening long.
the swash of cold waves,
ankle-deep, twines burning sand -
infinite surging
oil of coconut
on darkening flesh, the sun -
surf and splash sizzle
Last night a high wind
undressed the maple grove
it broke both twig and bough.
A flying carpet fell,
blood-tinted gold
spackled the woodland floor,
all in a heap and litter.
If you walk ankle-deep there
your shoes learn to speak
with the dying and the dead.
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