Sunday, January 29, 2017

savage power

savage power-
each day a morning after
the broken hearts, the longing
where are the kind angels?

yes, yes, “We are all one.”

Saturday, January 14, 2017

Concourse B - Cancelled Flight


down the center                                        moving walkways
on each side                                             free walkers
doubled on chrome ceilings                     again in glass trim, again, chrome edges
passing cyphers, encrypted                      people rushing, or, just not really fast
horizontal intervals, posed                      atonal scores, sporadic citations
playing at getting somewhere                   flowing past each other                
pompoms, baseball caps, ear muffs           annotations in hats
competing flows, chance kids                   grace notes pulling tiny bags
very special dogs in well-made sweaters    a few, au natural

at the lonely still point                               alien in this tube
drained phone                                            sleeping partner
a timed-out sentry                                      stuck in Denver

Tuesday, December 20, 2016

beyond the curtains

beyond the curtains
the snow-laced pull of silence
one broken moon
it must still be Advent
the empty waiting for one

true and holy night

Sunday, December 4, 2016

Cleavage Grain

cleavage grain
the place where diamonds split
if you know where to find it

one broken piece
refracting icy twilight
low bass hallelujah

too cold for an owl
crack of a broken branch
moonless night dirge

a ghost of Leonard Cohen
singing the river of changes
An Age of Oligarchs Has Come

play it on an Irish pipe
No-one move

Lorna Cahall 12/4/'16

Monday, July 11, 2016


not a sound above the breakwater
soaring on motionless wings
    this is the promise

Tuesday, June 21, 2016

Old Stuff

grandpa's chair still here
saved from the Annapolis kitchen
holding his Army-Navy game
cheers and groans
and white owl cigar smoke
    woven with radio waves

Sunday, June 19, 2016


...conjures up my father
who loved the beaches
of Indonesia more than
any person. Here he is,
in my curtains and tablecloths,
the browns and yellows, gold
of the whole world, wrapping
round me. The fields wild
stubble...there is the man.
If I could, I would paper
the walls in batik patterns.
No matter, I'd still
see him walking away,
through the haunted door,
long gone down the dirt lane.
A lifetime ago and I
still want to howl like
a left-behind animal.

willamette writers

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