Na Mata

Between blues skies and tangerines
frogs sing in trees
children swim naked in dark waters
the smell of green fills your lungs
with life, rich and hopeful.

Light vibrates through the foliage
dancing on the forest floor
to shimmer across the body
of a lover’s embrace
like a silent movie kiss.

The heat rises in misty wetness
obscuring the farthest recesses
of this jungle’s memory
where sleeping magic waits
your return from hunger.

“Return to me,
come, come…”
is the call.


The Way Long

The air is still chill though
the sun shines bright
no one notices the blooms
that push past winter
as they pass through
the archway into the darkness
of this stone fortress
memories once held finer times.

So much lost with time,
seconds dull the senses
yet the search continues for
a place amongst the stones
only mortar, leather and wool,
curtains and curtsies,
that can never go back
It’s a long way home…



in the face of

trembling color captured

while planning the fall

Impetuous fever


‘cross satin cheeks

while someone watches

Bitter apples

bite back

blood-stained lips of regret

while sandcastles die

Shedding armor cast


like warm summer rain

while riding the release

Thunderous music swells up

inside out

creating waves across skin

while the skies part

flavors and tones…

lost their




If I could fly
I would travel home
carried by the breath of God
silent in flight
simple in sight
Over the desert I’d roam.

If I could dance
I would whirl for you
inspired by the music of life
wrapped in joy
song of Iroquois
The essence of man I’d pursue.

If I could read
I would hear the thought
written by the eternal soul
longing in hand
knowledge in demand
Which over the years I forgot.

If I could see
I would know the destiny
placed by the heart of nature
determined in course
spring of source
Vivid with artistry.

If I could BE
I would choose lasting harmony
supported by faith and hope
constant in measure
life in leisure
A woven intimate tapestry.

-Previously Publishes 1989 Poetic Page


silent the watcher

at the end of language
the world bends
a cool stream through
green hills and listen
see the feeling
bird-feathers sway down
they dance in the draft
that circles your room
circles in circles move
touch speak in the twilight
daydreams trap hopeful
your golden slope of neck
with this morning light
caresses curves
untold illusions of God
and the awful rowing
toward his watchfulness
that harsh standard
of home, yet still
isolation now resembles
nightmares the true solitude
those glints off
darkened water so far
gems captured in light
as dewdrops drip
from fanning forest green


green bananas and song


jungle stories

little red canoe floats
the river, lost in the
moment, jumping off
the rooftops into the
river below, children
gather around the
storyteller as she
creates another wonder,
old Brazilian sayings
and the time he thought
that he could eat all
those green bananas,
homemade dolls made
old corn husks, bows
and arrows, and fishing
with a stick, the river
gave and it took, what
remains only faded
images, stories told
now to youngest
singing, “Menina, vai,
com jeito vai
Senão um dia a
casa cai.”


waiting, waiting, for
the storm to pass while
gatherings form, disappear
the changing form with
movement from one place
to the next, searching the
silence for answers, only
known within, forms the
lyrics that fill pages with
passion dripping each word
heavy your heart continues
the empty beaches’ stroll
tiny shells and coral pockets
remnants of that time
before the fading began,



upon a once only time
tumbled Jill after
i took the blade
made her cloth
of bridge twine
troll roared
at trampling goat gruff
be nimble, be quick
down let
your long hair
amid his fragile
lining the fallen
no more
moon jumping
i stare
undulating stars.


  • Previously publish under marc says, maysa says
    Renga Rounds
    Marco Ashcroft & Maysa Peterson

the crossing

back there gates swung in dust

watchtower stood

brooding the dead city

devastation lingers

fierce silhouettes

of passion spent

jagged rock bleeds

thoughts of you

amid the bleached bone

of red hair

lighting the crossroads

hunger rises again

the lost and the lonely

beneath a stone

your image taunts

i follow.


– Photography by Aline Smithson May 30, 2013

  • Previously published in marc says, maysa says
    Renga Rounds 1998
    by Marco Ashcroft and Maysa Peterson


Sirius looks
the chill
the moment
when first
we met
a keenness
chill calling
electric kisses
stars streaking
the long
the dim 
ing hands
knitted together
that offer

Reaching for the Moon web 1000 n 72

Reaching for the Stars – photo by Jonathan

razor’s edge


-Photography by Marion Owen Kodiak Island

darkness still possesses color
what remains of yesterday
while sleep illusive tip toes
away, ghosts from other rooms
demand attention, awakening
that same pain reminder of
the coming day’s events, how
what was, will never be again
cuts the landscape’s edges
bring awareness center stage.