The Poetry of Ants
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A Rose of Unusual Color
The parched flower burrowsAs a drill unto the earth.Tubes made of cellulose and fiberClench and writhe and curl––A soul as desiccated as scorn-ed bones.So too, I believe,That the child is bruised and torn–– That they beget lamentationsJust before they brightly burn.
A Temple for Smoke
Gain one minute.Give back five.That’s the theology of smoke.It bellows from a burning scroll.It ascends the church steeple–Infiltrates by way of ashen veinsThat congeal between the bricks.Its words on my tongueDoth stingAnd doth stainBut when expelled from my lips?I kiss a moment of flavor.One of comfort.One of still…While mother nature and sister timeLay greater burdens…
The Creek Behind your House
I didn’t leave you Because I hated you; I left because If my heart had its way, Then we would have given Each and every Cell in your body A chance to cut us– –Convinced there’d be just one Who’d remember that Long Summer afternoon In the forest Where we professed our love To one…
[…] next post isn’t quite ready, but I wanted to let you know that my audio recitation for “The Womb…
Yeah I ate up that series in mah younger days!
An excellent piece. Have you ever read Ted Dekker’s Black, Red, and White trilogy? There is much in common in…
I’m interested in how/why you are blending the Father and Son with the Id and the Ego? Those are not…
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The Poetry of Ants 
Most beautiful, Poetry from the soul.