Her Savage Orange Shape

It isn’t your face that always inspires me;
it’s the oceans I imagine your soul sailing
when your heart storms in passion.

It isn’t your shape
walking in a short skirt;
it’s your back
fitting with my front.
I wake up unrested
yet happy next to you.

You’re more than a muse
that makes me scratch the itch
a poet gets when I bubble think love.

Your blue eyes open
the nimbus canopy
in the imagined love land.
Bird songs and jazz guitar chords
pulse the wind
and trees play their brush tops
and snare the autumn gusts.

I curl my pen to carve out
our home in that land.
Strong shouldered walls
standing firm in the jazz wind.
Our night sky runs
savage orange
before the close of day.

You turned into fire when I kissed you.
My denial kisses me back now,
puckers its lips,
and blows on the candle
I write this poem by.
The flames still consume me
when I open my mouth
with your name.


Copyright 2010

There’s No Rider Here

The hay shreds fall slant
like snow on the dirt
of the barn.
The wind rustles broken saddles
kicking its feet in the

He darkly fits his words around the reins.
Big fists sweat verbs:
spur. ride. whip.
Who is dark horse
without this?

His boots bounce
on her flanks.
The planks underneath
bend under damp and midnight.
Her back hits his thighs;
his legs blush black.
Who is dark horse
without this?

The fire between moments;
the smoke and ash erupts
as they both jump together.
Who is dark horse
without this?

Copyright 2010


Heaven dreams with gold-brick roads,
chill will not grip our feet.
The auger light shines on
in beauty; without greed’s reach.

Heaven bends the mystics backs;
the panting footsteps;
The hungry ghosts grab
the breaths.
They cover the storm warnings
with lies about lyres and clouds.

Heaven weeps honey
through the knot holes of trees;
My feet are welded as I climb.
Every building crumbles without
their shoulders.

*Inspired by Yeats’ “Second Coming”.
Copyright 2009


The leaves seethe amber:

dripping crimson,

flaming orange,

and rusting golds.

The evening flushes green;

its third-eye brushes–

hushing umber twilight.

The color dries;

the sapphire sheens

expanding purple

into a violet wire-sky.

A Pawn

Dead at 33

deep dreams hidden:

books of pressed leaves–

what a night to cut the wire

and break the ring.

hot motor brain

thoughts burn away

writhing in demon urine:

“Help me/Kill me”.

He swallowed the white bullets;

wrapped in cream-green wombs.

the yellow tabs where he signed: toe tags.

Copyright 2009

Village Life (part 2)

The deep woods fold
in our crease of sleep.
we relax the arms
that hold up the world.

Her muted trumpets
blow fire-notes.
The sun is left
to walk alone
before we wake.

Copyright 2009 Garrett J. Cummins


The rain reminds me:
“You cupped fireflies

The drops use dimes,
to edge the lamp-light:
reflecting echoes.

She shines at me–
blink blink blink
her soul walks
in a old pair of jeans.
I picked her a poem
of blooming, white fire.

I am raised
on the flames.

Copyright 2009

Science and Music

I heard the bubbles crackle
when I put my head under.
I relaxed my lids shut
and watched supernovas
burst the first fire.

It takes two scientists to study
each one.  Two separate things.

They are.  One is the melody
and the other–harmonic creation.

Someday, they will hear
which is which,
when fire ends.

Copyright 2009