I live by The Sound,

ears tilted down,

a hound on the bound.

 

Birds speak to me, say who

I should be, what to write

like my computer's a kite.

 

I used to be a wind-up-toy,

spin around, hit the ground.

Now, metaphorically I climb a tree,

live a life in 3-D, black and white would be beastly.

 

As a boy I was small, inspiration way too tall,

all of the seasons fall. Winter stared me down

with its paralyzing frown. Orange and red turned to brown.

 

Chilled by what I saw, I lacked vision of the Big Haul.

 

So I hitched past Montreal, Sault Ste. Marie raced by me. Banff, Fairbanks, Denali.

West Coast called. Koma Kulshan swept me in. Its shadow like Gunga Din.

What I did was my next whim.

 

Who I was lied to me ever since I wturned three.

Rolled out the door, a duct-taped ball, afraid to rise afraid to fall.

Down the street to shrouded shore, crashing waves loudly implored…

Make war on dead-end thought – what makes sense cannot be bought,

inner earthquake is where you’re taught.

 

So I write what comes to me,

like I’m high in cedar tree.

Looking out to Puget Sound,

like a hound I circle round,

poems turn lost words to found.