May 15, 2017

At the fatal risk of corniness, here is a simple poem for mother’s day.

All living creatures seek
their own good. Parents seek
the good of their offspring.
Mothers actually give
their own flesh.

Mothers naturally love
their children, however
I think some natural things
do not come easily.

No. 13

April 15, 2017

Preparing my heart

on this silent spring night’s walk

for tea with a friend.

Another Night

April 12, 2017

The dust of the earth
Settles in the horizons;
Atmospheric window-pane
Becomes unclouded.

The tarnished moon,
Cleans as its edge may seem,
Suffers eons.

It seems the stars
Sing muted melodies,
Forlorn in their age.

Consumed by time,
Separated by time,
This universe.

Traced by my tired eyes–
Is there a story
In entropy?

And I wonder
what the ancients saw at night.

No. 10

August 22, 2016

An emanation

Of white-hot sparks on the sea:

The moon’s treadless path.


June 29, 2016

This is the same harsh angle of the sun,
this is the same so deadly humid heat
I felt that week your ending had begun,
reflecting from the glass along the street,
the shattered bits of accidents or trash,
the careless cost of greed obsessed with speed,
the same damned world that made your system crash
and sprout that cancer like a roadside weed.
I walked those mornings to the hospital,
eyes downcast, sweating, breathing in the fumes
of fast Columbus traffic, senses dull,
or so I thought, but now this heat exhumes
the body of that grief. I saw, I heard,
and I remember, Mother. Every word.

 –Thomas Kinder
(found through this article; otherwise can’t find anything else by the poet:

The River

May 20, 2016

I have found my path,
Springing from the earth
In accordance with my
Innermost necessity.

Truly have I felt
Carving myself a place–
Being nothing but motion

Indeed, I shape things,
Fitting them to me.
Still, I am diverted:
I, the river of willing.

No. 8

March 27, 2016

At its tipping-point,
The weight of heavenly masses
Is emptied out:

Plummeting droplets
Like porcelain vases
Dashed against concrete.

Concentric circles
Woken by impact and slowed


No. 7

March 27, 2016

Like the color of

Tumeric on wet, black rice:

Mountain gorse bushes.

19 Feburary

March 3, 2014

The atmospheric masses headed West today.
And I am perusing the cypress here
Wanting nothing.

The garden-lot is dimmed
For their eternal migration,
Closed in on itself,
Having been passed over
This afternoon. The lichen,
And even the frustrated vines
Have on the brick wall taken on
A steel-blue, pallid hue.

The occupants of this garden
Are not without indifference to horizons but
also possess
Some kind of permanence.

Dance of the Fly

Gratuitous petals that fall from the brink
Cause a pretender, waken the sphinx
Clasping grenades with the plunder anew
Breaking a still in a bottle.

Unspeakable flongos that scuttle the wake
Gird a reliant, sufferable fate
Grasping the bridge that pretendeth the night
Stooping a stalk to the water.

Bring a collective to settle the walls
Taking a bath, scraping the calls
Fidgeting stopholders blending én rue
Pouring a gallon gallomph.