Poetry 365: He sings at the campfire

He played a Gibson guitar,
the one with the hummingbirds
carved in the pickguard.

He had small hands,
so He avoided the F chord
when He could.

He was too humble to sing.
He was happy to play
while John fumbled at the words.

"And Jesus was a sailor,
when he walked upon the water."
Cohen never sounded so sweet.

Poetry 365: Untitled

One tenth of the day
passes while we sit
under a honey locust tree,
wondering aloud if we were
two fools in winter.

Poetry 365: Unchained

The sea climbs halfway up the cliffs
and asks to see your paperwork.

Poetry 365: The Bird That Sings Dirt

is a bundle of gray feathers
stretched thin over hollow bones,
perched on the eaves
of the last house
at the edge of the brittle
winter woods.

Poetry 365: Burn

From the marbled fifteenth floor,
we can see the fire burning
in a lot, next door to Dorset Spa,
consuming the dandelion weeds,
the discarded Frito bags,
crushed rocks and umbrella stems.

Poetry 365: Tejas

Six days of rain fall
on the wildflowers.
The bluebonnets are on a bender
and just might sober up
in time for Mother's Day.