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Saturday, 27 June 2009



  • Albion

    We race the falling sun beyond
    the yellow hills and past
    green grape vines
    and barns bending into meadows under
    their roofs painted the color of dried blood.

    The highway points west, leaping
    out over cliffs edging a fury
    deep within the churning waves.

    The sleek, cloud gray feathers
    of seabirds lift in the sea wind
    over the Albion River docks,
    my father whistles between his fingers

    a call to the ospreys, whose audience of children
    watches from below, its talons around
    a limp carcass of scales.

    The foghorn beyond the bridge
    bellows through the night
    and into dawn, a beast tormented
    by the surge of cold tide.

    Wet velvet harbor seals raise their
    round faces studded with hollow black eyes,
    to stare at fisherman navigating past exposed rocks
    in first light, a smell of decaying kelp
    wafting through the thick, tranquil fog.

    In the woodsmoke mornings
    the beach is quiet, the sand a dismal gray
    becoming alive with pebble of seaglass,
    studded in lavender and green and cobalt blue.
    They are heavy in my pockets

    treasures, sheltered touchstones.

    The dampening breeze carries a mysteriousness
    so profound that I am moved to stop
    and stare out over the water
    to drink it with every part
    of me.






Tuesday, 23 June 2009



  •                                Robin's Song
                                   For my Papa on Father's Day

                                   For the first time
                                   I notice a few gray hairs
                                   in the stubble on my father's chin,
                                   they shine like the blades of grass and
                                   powdered yellow calla lilies
                                   in leathery white sheaths
                                   reflected in the lenses of
                                   his glasses.

                                   Bespectacled and warm from
                                   the sweating beer in his fist,
                                   he looks tired as he stands
                                   slouched near the stone fire pit.

                                   He still smells like coffee in
                                   the mornings when the sleep is not yet
                                   rubbed from his eyes,
                                   the way he hugs me is wholly
                                   and undistractedly comforting,
                                   like the robin's song echoing
                                   throughout the calm forests in summer,
                                   columns of light beaming to the ground
                                   from the gaps in the canopy overhead,
                                   the song drifts lazily over our heads,
                                   through the sawdust from his woodshop
                                   it clings in a taupe powder to his
                                   broad shoulders, I dust it away, the two of us giddy,
                                   and I suddenly feel the urge to tell him I am sorry,
                                   but I do not know what for.






Tuesday, 05 May 2009



  • Take Me With You to the Sunshine Side

    One of these days,
    I hope you can
    run away with one
    of the men who sit
    at the bar late into the night,
    and then you will find the halo
    you lost while trailing it in the
    grass behind you in the mountain
    meadow somewhere on the sunshine
    side of memories and seasons
    and remember me, pleading
    to take me with you.




Monday, 27 April 2009




  • To Blank, From Blank

    When I woke up, you were already gone.
    I'm sorry I missed you and couldn't say goodbye.
    I made the bed again the way you like it,
    with the sheets tucked in tight above the
    boxsprings.

    You left without your coat, so I hung
    it up in the hall closet. Hope you're
    not cold today in this winter weather.

    I won't be here if you come home today,
    I've gone away for a little while, but I'll
    be back next summer when the sun is
    golden again.

    I hope you know you didn't have to
    kiss my bruises, but I let you anyway
    because you said you wanted to.

    My heart is in the jelly jar on the
    third shelf of the refrigerator,
    in case you want it later.


Friday, 24 April 2009



  • Wilder Ranch

                                    Together they stand quietly watching the
                                    swallows in the barns, their knife
                                    wings slicing the musty air;

                                    they feed the horses the
                                    meadow their fleshy muzzles
                                    couldn't reach through the

                                    gaps in the fence; the
                                    forest becomes quiet around them,
                                    the dead trees are skeletons

                                    growing up into the sky;
                                    lizards scurry in the grass
                                    when she plucks a stalk of

                                   dandelion seeds, white tufts of
                                   goose down parachuting away
                                   from the green center bud, and when she

                                   purses her lips and scatters the seeds
                                   he looks at her like he knows
                                   what she is wishing for.



BLBruce

  • Visit BLBruce's Xanga Site
    • Name: BLBruce
    • Gender: Female
    • Member Since: 1/6/2009
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About Me

  • I am a young writer and poet currently attending the University of California at Santa Cruz to study Modern Literature and Poetry. I am self-published and have been writing for nearly ten years. Also, all of the photos featured on my site were taken by me. Photography is another one of my passions... I welcome and encourage criticism, positive and negative feedback on any and all of my work. Thanks for visitng my site!

Pulse

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Chatboard (3)

  • llbruce
    Oh beautiful niece.  Who would have thought the images and words would flow from you like waves upon the sand.  Let the heart open and create a space for all the soul to see.   brava, bri.aunt lauri
    • Posted 1/29/2009 10:00 PM
    • by llbruce
  • fiapapa
    Hey Bri; The beach at Davenport is a special place. The dunes were a place a Papa could be with is kids and also be a kid. It was a place were this Papa spent time as a kid too. I remember the elephant seals, the sharp and prickly grass and how the wind would nearly blow you off your feet when we w
    • Posted 1/26/2009 3:14 AM
    • by fiapapa
  • BLBruce
    Just joined Xanga and I need an audience! Check out my stuff and I will do the same for you! Any positive or negative feedback is appreciated... peace :]
    • Posted 1/7/2009 3:12 PM
    • by BLBruce