Calm is the passing storm

Calm is the passing storm

from shelter’s mouth I view

Winds that whip the wrestling sea

from shelter’s mouth anew

Are waves which roar like lion’s breath

from shelter’s mouth I coo

How calm it seems the passing storm

from shelter’s mouth I view—a dinghy

in the water struggling, it’s a sailor

so uncouth—a sailor I once knew.

Toeing the edge

There is a fine line —
like a tightrope walker
toeing the edge —
between
complaint and contradiction
that makes me want to set
this whole word farm on fire.