“What on earth are you writing about?”Abuelo Ignazio said. ​
“Everything. Politics, change, the way things could be.”
“What for? For? Why write it down? Writing is essential.
Hmmph. You can’t eat a poem.”*
My response? Yes, you can! You can eat it with your eyes and your mind and your heart! ​
(* Invisible Mountain, Carolina de Robertis, p. 231)

Men Are Allowed

Wrinkles distinguish them in age.
A female, fresh-cheeked, slim, coy: just what the
old boy ordered. She ain’t allowed to wrinkle. It’d
spoil her image. ​
How could she snare a man?
Neanderthal noggins Progress? Negligible.
Here and there the globe is gracious
There and here it’s niggardly.
Wrapped in its own shawl, Unaware of the damage
it’s doing, More akin to sealed shut
The honey locked in the comb.
Candling the wax
The sweet potential Is freed
For the world to taste.

Latest Poems

Rocking out on Rocks: Valley of Fire

They say that yonder rock once flitted
Under a wide and glassy sea
One hundred grains between the toes
Thumped flat by a brontosaurus
Usurped when the comet crashed
Vacuuming every drop of water
From thin sands, pink layered with coral
Topped by carmine and vermillion
The unimaginable force of fire
Far beneath the surface
Slipped the rainbow slices sideways
Tilted them until
Their shoulders humped up and up
Now twisted, eroded they reign
Without endeavor, the great rocks in the desert
Stand and battle with the waves and wind for ever.

A Wilderness Canvas

A poem is when you hear the heart beat of a tree
A poem is when your soul loosens up
A poem is yeast rising in baking bread
A poem is a stone that floats noiselessly
A poem is a song let out of the cage
A poem is the lungs of the world heaving a sigh


The congregations
Have been swept under couches
Forgotten as dust.
It rains and rains
The drops cascade down my cheeks
It rains when death reigns.
Rivers are swollen
They swallow, digest and spit
Disgorging deltas.
Arrayed like a queen
powdered and prepped for the prom
Her heart is trembling.
Finally Five:
My world collapsed
To a shard of poetry
An ink-blotted word.

So That I Might Become Spring

So here, late afternoon I sit
letting a distant train hhhhrrrrrrrr
blend in with a double cheep of a chickadee
small as a minute sitting on the peak of the roof

but sounding with the volume of a bird the size of a
raven. A row of irises freckle the green
mingling brights and pastels.
Water heavy with color,ferns spread above silver lamb’s ear.
The garden glistens with spring
And I too glisten inside
with the feel of its musky yet delicate scents.
Yesterday’s leaf thumbs on the trees are now floppy hands
weaving in the air that moves silently until it caresses them.
Responding, the leaves shiver against one another
and whisper the secrets of their power, the most
prolific form of life on earth.
And here I sit.
wishing my skin permeable
So that the hues and sounds
Scents and tastes
Slip inside That I might become

What is a Poem?

Where minds can roam free
Unencumbered devoid of urban superfluous
necessities. But sometimes inhabited in
disgusting hordes of mosquitoes
Or worse:
Tiny black flies that bite with a vengeance all
out of proportion To their inconsequential size.
Or worse:
Masses of tent caterpillars denuding trees
Mindlessly swarming up pants legs, into the hair.
Or worse:
Bloodsucking ticks attaching to your body
Making your blood boil, your teeth clench.
Or better:
The clouds unclench losing a deluge
Followed by the radiance of renewal
Or better yet:
A silken lake reflects the fullest silhouettes
Of frothy greens ribboned with loon ripples
One better:
Sounds liquefy into soundless music
The canvas is painted only by the full breath of
Imagination – J. Campbell, 2018

Memories and Dreams

The room crowds with memories and dreams
As the sun reaches through the curtains
A whisper of a curl
And the day shines under my eyelids.
A poem shoots out
It sprays visible breath onto an ivory page
Impatient to receive the hovering words
The unsaid etches on the ivory.
The poem gives lies teeth
And truth bites straight through
Severing the hate envy greed
Truth has its own venom
The day shines into my eyes 
A curling whisper
As the honest sun reaches out
Crowding the room with memories and dreams.

Haikumoon 1

Pregnant, the moonrise Appears a bubble of light Splitting the darkness

Haikumoon 2

Riffles, ragged edges The eye ceaselessly wanders Trumped by emotion