Ravens
Can the ravens hear poetry in the gray wind or sighs in the night?
I recently came across my earliest publications, a collection of forgettable poems that made their way into several small literary journals.
A short poem on hiking: One foot in front, then the other.
A poetic contemplation of a moment caught in a snapshot before a young woman’s life took a cruel turn.
A highlight of Forest Grove, Oregon, is a visit to the water treatment plant, where sewage feeds the Fernhill Wetlands. Before dawn the wetlands bustle with waterfowl and songbird activity as treated waters become the source of life for the thriving chaos of nature. In the aftermath of human waste, a natural place becomes possible.
Is creativity merely a function of the body as a biological organism, or is there something more, a transcendental muse that inspires and guides creativity?
A black-billed magpie crosses the barbed boundaries of a wire fence to defend its winged playfulness in a big sky landscape. Perched upon a wooden post, it scouts its next move. More elegant than its cousin crow, the black-and-white formalwear of the magpie obscures its irreverent posturing above the sagebrush plain. ♨