top of page


Hunter Boone

They say he was a master of holiness
and could heal the broken
with the palm of his hand
reaching across the
impenetrable nothing

and a carpenter
chipping fallow wood
from the centers of
the heaviest most disparate
trees - hollowing out the
souls of trunks
to make bowls of rice

and a fisherman
laying the nets
reeling them in,
silver and gold
wriggling octopi or purple crappie
or large green-mouthed bass

and a cook
roasting salmon in a fire by the sea
for his friends
feeding them succulent ornamental
bellies of fish
which they devoured entire,
down to the last white
supplicant bone.


Poetry is the language of the heart directly spoken
Be willing to let go of being acceptable
The only perfect poem is no poem
Out of the primordial muck, I WILL create something
My ship is not going to come in unless I first build it and send it out
The only cure for self-doubt is action
Veni Vidi Vici “I Came, I Saw, I Conquered”

bottom of page