The halo around the moon is the son of madness who follows a cold light who sits inside shadows haunted by sounds — a footstep, a figure, a face… who’s fallen for his own reflection, has nothing but himself and… Read More ›
poem
Song for autumn
A piece of fuzz in the air, a seed-bloom, a soul, will-o’-the-wisp leading me to uplit trees, quiet hillsides, hidden peaks. A voice, a dream, a memory, the sunset in autumn and softening light: Who can pretend the angle doesn’t affect… Read More ›
Gray on Brown
The colors mirror my insides this time of year, the muted tones and dampened smiles The earth settling in, parts of it fallen to repose in piles and patterns, Wisps of wood fire smoke: the crackle in the leaves, the… Read More ›
Collector of small things
The poet is a collector of small things who says Here, and holds out her hand with something found on a walk. It’s a leaf that could be a flame it’s so red, or a piece of wood that looks… Read More ›
Beach became sky
This morning the sky’s gutted and fanned out like the beach, the clouds ocean foam, the stars peaking out through the sand, surprised to find themselves with the left-behind junk of man and the creatures and the saltwater pods stirring… Read More ›
This life is a jacket we’ll take off soon
I pulled a Walt Whitman, tripping-out on my back in the grass, with ants crawling up my arms and neck, my ears full of birdsong and dogs barking, something flying by and stopping on my head, plastered to the earth… Read More ›
The bright, dark sounds of The Red House Painters
The grass is going brown already, but I won’t water it. I hadn’t laid on it yet, on my back with the dog in the sun, afternoon wine, nothing to do, nowhere to be. Like the August we went to… Read More ›
The ambivalence of airports
Airports are soul-suckers, They take on the life of their subjects but have none of their own. No one goes to the airport to be at the airport, but airports are necessary like doctors’ offices and hospitals: We all pass… Read More ›
The weight of space in the eyes
Crow wings beat hard to keep themselves up They hop, squawk, strut Never once complain. We call them death: Their eyes the color of space Cold, dark, the wisdom of the infinite confined to a frame. Maybe there’s no warmth… Read More ›
Poems come like children
They are small things full of wonder that take a long time to produce — They don’t act the way you expect, but may be your best expression Fragile, strong, willful, watching: Your future, your past wrapped in a wish… Read More ›
Bill Pearse 