*with a deep bow of gratitude
                       to
      the Lexpomo community
               from whom
          i learn much and
                have much
                       to
                    learn
may you journey well, dear ones

Sunset fading close of day

We come together here every evening
                  holding hands

Vision drawn by darkling sky
          dimness of all
                    but
             our actions

Stars appear, sacred, mysterious
         transitional time

My parents and all ancestors
          past, present, and future
                  stand with me

We bow in gratitude of the gifted
                    day that’s done
         honoring our dear ones and
                          all of you
              all beings in all worlds

During accessible aura of opening up
                            peace
                            peace
                            peace

Thirty days.
Scores and scores of lines
the lyrics to the soundtracks of our lives.
Cicadas, faith, and unrest.
Grappling with our own emotions.
Building a small community of craftsmen
with which to share
the beauty of expression
blossoming warmth of humor
and ice-pick sharp expressions of pain.
Writing, commenting, sharing
small windows into the worlds
of the folks we walk past without really knowing.

Within me it awoke a bonfire
igniting and catalyzing
a chain-reaction shattering the solid
brick and mortar dam between me
and my inspiration.
What was once a trickle
through a carefully bored hole
between two mis-matched bricks
now, a deluge. Thirty shared poems
plus three or four more
a proliferation of poetry from a poet
unaccustomed to a week
penning three or more.

I am so grateful
to my mom for suggesting
to the fine folks who designed and aligned
this wonderful event’s existence.
To you, dear reader,
for taking the time and the care to read
my works, my thoughts, my hopes and my dreams.
Oft glimpsing my deepest insecurities.
In a cadence that may not be how I intended
or imagined, but
that makes my poems unique to each of you
and yours to me.
We are all different, in the way that we read.
Like snowflakes, indistinguishable to the eyes,
yet structurally unique.
I look forward to next year.
Signing off, with free verse rhymes
taking it one line at a time
A. G.

The twinkling glow of sky
brightens with the motion
of a rushing wave, building, 
pooling light to chase away 
whatever umbra clings to its 
delicate swathe of clouds.

I wish I would want to be this marshmallow
-skewered, toasted, and squashed— between 
waxy chocolate 
and 
Half-stale graham crackers

to be made of marrow and formed of fluff, desired &
delighted by your desire for me

to be worried fewer times that I will be consumed by
my softness 

Digested without tasting
Expelled as a waste of calories and time.

I wish you would want to savor this campfire delight, a
snack you’ll have made of, my sweetness &Trust
that you’ll 
not lose me to the fire

The backbent arch peers
at my depositions
from a 2003 murder. Given
ocean, canines, and oranges,
we made prison. The interns
love to watch trial like TV.
A shattered femur
and a video of a shattered
femur both hurt me.
I have nearly no
convictions, work-numbed.
No surprise—still, logic
sneers. It’s like no one here’s
ever heard an acoustic guitar
and laid down on the floor.
A broken necked deer
in the city, a stingray
picnic blanket. The cruelty
of weaning. Trying to end stop
this with tape. Screwing shut
my gut when I clock out.

Feel free to stop by my dreams tonight
You are a treasured guest in my subconscious mind
Linger as long as it pleases you
For the pleasure is really all mine

And if you would, before you depart
Bestow upon me a kiss, a brush
Of wind-chapped lips to escort me 
Through to morning

Thank
you.
I say 
to every
open heart who reads
these signals I send out in hope.

                                                             —   for Kathleen

It seems an ordinary house on an ordinary street
if you do not know that behind it a creek flows,
with a bend widened by dozens of ducks 
quacking up the bank to be fed by their neighbor.  

You would not know that wrens warble by day,
that at dusk a great blue heron drops
to a branch above, her folded bulk balanced on one leg,
one thin line that by magic keeps her upright.  

Nothing would tell you of their efforts to tame
passionflower vines, to scrape layers of red paint,
of their evenings stargazing round the firepit,
work done, hot tea in hand, voices in a whisper.