Poetry In A Garden Of Fire

In gardens of fire we grow
gold moon studs to pierce
the dark tongues of midnight dreams,

origami shadows with sun-feather wings,
hollow lightning chimes
to dangle in the wind-beards of storms.

There’s no yellow fruit, green, red,
or sprouts breaking earth, only words
rising from the furrows of fallen stars.


Today is the one year anniversary of Laughing ghosts. For year two, a new name, slight change of color, but the same old poet, at the same old address.