Psalms, Yawps, and Howls is one of 5 writing websites of Daniel Eugene Wilcox, a writer, pebble-poet,
and kickabout mutant traveler of the mind,
human history, the world, and (stretching into deep time) the cosmos.
My wandering, wondering lines have appeared in many magazines including Contemporary American Voices, vox poetica, Dead Snakes, Word Riot, Centrifugal Eye,
Write Room, Enhance, Static Movement, Counterexample Poetics, and Unlikely Stories IV, in not only the U.S., but Canada, Europe, etc.
--
MARCH 2026
The Feeling of the Earth
an opening passage... But then as he peered out through leafy branches, the sky tore open--abruptly, distorting, and bubbling out, a darkness looking at first like a black globbed mass, like dark spittle on a French trapper's beard, but then widening, widening, widening...until he, Wore Wolf Teeth, inched back with dread. This deadly vision came from the spirits, not from any bodied foe...Widening, the dark, translucent bubble continued enlarging.
Then the sky tunnel of smoked blackness swallowed the whole horizon and out of the cavernous maw charged, stormed, barraged a drab-gray monster. What dreadful evil spirit? Or could it be a severe warning, an omen to him from the Great Spirit?
He gripped his medicine bag hanging from his neck, crawled out of the brush, stood and said, "I am of the Chaticks-si-chaticks (Men of men)!
Above, the gigantic dark-gray spirit hovered pulsating, threatening, and behind it the blackened sky, endless tar, darkening the world.
Only 3 miles away, horses of an Oregon-bound wagon train skittered and bucked; one large roan knocked its rider to the ground. Men looked up in shock, bewildered by this sudden pitch darkness.
CONTENTS
1 The 3rd Alien
2 Return of Tactilization
3 Driven Out
4 Into the Maelstrom
5 Blue Bellies
6 Shut Down
7 The Bushwackers
8 Orphaned
9 Communion
10 Death and Disunion
11Down Texas-Messed Way
12 North to Alaska
13 Treasure and Loss
14 1st Flight
15 Boulder Dam High-Scalers
16 Counter Culture
17 Summer of Love in the Haight
18 3 Sons of Abraham
19 Descending Among Us
20 Mars Hub
21 The Limitness of Humaness
22 FeelSire Corporation
23 Epilogue
Chapter 1: The 3rd Alien, Nebraska Territory, 1842
New wheel ruts marred the grassy area near Clear Creek. Cursing, the native Pawnee crouched down and examined long furrows all along wet ground for many yards. Alarmed, he turned to stone and scanned nearby land, holding his breath. But no human sounds came, none, only sparrows chittering in clumps of elms hanging over the stream.
The brook’s thin water gurgled, rippling, wide and shallow. Pebbles shimmered on its sandy bottom. Eastward, the stream flowed, winding away amongst his people’s grassy loafed hills. Through tall elms, 50 yards away, a flat stone ridge loomed, their Table Rock. However, no human sound nor a single unusual movement anywhere in the landscape.
He stood and seethed. These wheeled scars had marred their land far too long for many moons! Those pale aliens came from the north and from the east, following the very large wide, flat, muddy Nebraskier River westward that their small creek flowed into. Sometimes these invaders’ wagon teams stopped at little Clear Creek, because of the abundant spring which fed it.
1
Recently the enemies had gotten men of a nearby tribe, the stupid Oto, drunk on firewater—trading that evil drink for many beaver pelts. He cursed, again, silently and watched the land. Thank you Great Spirit that my people, we Chaticks-si-chaticks (Men of men), don’t betray others for drink. We’re not a twisting snake like Oto cowards.
However, then he remembered several seasons ago. True, I sold my last catch of beaver last year to one such group of invaders, ugly haired 2-faces, but did so for needed blankets. But I won’t sell to those scum--defilers--ever again! I, Wore Wolf Teeth of the Chaticks-si-chaticks, swear to it.
He brushed one hand through the single ridge of stiffened hair that roostered up from his mostly shaven head. Then he peered at rock outcroppings to the west and up a large narrow arroyo.
Only 3 moons ago lazy Oto thieves had slunk into his village of Weeping Water while he and other warriors were out hunting bison. Had stolen his prize ceremonial shirt which his spouse had made from the hide of a large deer, one he had shot last winter.
Glancing back east, Wore Wolf Teeth wondered what other evils lay back there, yet to come this way and curse their lives. White aliens had not only corrupted the worthless Oto. Those invaders coming in their wheeled lodges slaughtered many bison, left most carcasses to rot last summer eastward toward the Big Muddy, profaned their land.
When he and several other warriors rode onto that evil scene, terrible stink assaulted them. Carcasses of hundreds of bison lay abandoned by the edge of the Nebraskier—so much rich meat rancid, rotting and bloating, crowded with skin-islands of flies in the hot summer sun.
The killers had skinned every shaggy hide from the fallen beasts, abandoned those corpses, and then left with only the hides piled high in their moving lodges. Greedy scum!
2
On that shameful day, the sun had blazed hot like now. He wiped sweat from his forehead. He reprimanded himself for not being there with his fellow braves to stop that slaughter.
Again, he scanned the landscape. Still no human sounds. Finally, Wore walked over to Clear Creek and scooped up a cool drink with his right hand. He would return to his village, speak in the council and maybe they would mount a war party to deal with these new wagon-aliens.
Suddenly, a covey of quail swarled up from a thicket a hundred feet away and winged up over the muddy ruts, skyward. Wore dropped flat, and like a bull snake slithered into heavy brush, listening for the sound of hooves, or boot steps, even muffled breathing. Nothing!
Only the creek’s gurgle. However, nearby birds had stopped chattering. Then as he peered out through leafy branches, the bright sky tore open--abruptly, distorting, and bubbling out, total darkness, a black globbed mass, like dark spittle on a French trapper's dark beard;
then widening, widening, widening, darkening the whole blue of sky!
Wore Wolf Teeth, inched back in dread, forgot about pale invading aliens. This deadly vision blackening the sky must come from the spirits or maybe the Great Spirit, not from any bodied foe. Yet the horrid sight was nothing like his quest dream he had received when becoming a brave a few seasons back on the southern plains.
Widening, the pitch-black translucent bubble continued enlarging until it covered the sky from horizon to horizon. What darkness! The monstrous distortion, strange and horrendous, the spirit even blotted out all sunlight.
3
Wolf Teeth lay still, at one with gravel and stones under him. The distorted cavern above him, endless, coal black horror, threatening to engulf the world. He remembered the murky cave he had climbed down into when a small boy, how it blotted out the sky. And how terrified he had been when he couldn’t find his way out for hours. All that black pitched darkness.
But this smoked blackness is far worse, a cavernous maw charging, storming, barraging. What dreadful evil spirit?
Or could it be a severe warning, an omen for me from the Great Spirit? But why?
He couldn’t think of any tribe rule he had violated. But now fearful dread oppressed him. Even 2 years ago when he had counted coup against the Arapahoe, disdaining their warriors and had to pull out a thrown lance from his bleeding arm, while hanging to his stolen horse's mane, even then he hadn’t been afraid.
No fear then, no! But alive and glorious, so triumphant; galloping across the plains, we were great victors.
But not now…now a hungry dread ate at his gut like a vulture. This was a scary test. His pulse beat fast, but he gripped his medicine bag hanging from his neck, crawled out of the brush, stood tall and said, "I am Wore Wolf Teeth of the Chaticks-si-chaticks!”
Above, the gigantic dark monster hovered pulsating, threatening, black sky, endless tar, darkening the world.
___________________________
Only 3 miles away, horses of an Oregon-bound wagon train, following previous wagon ruts skittered and bucked; one large roan knocked its rider to the ground. Men looked up in shock, bewildered by this sudden pitch darkness. Chatter and horseplay of their children ceased.
In the 3rd Conestoga wagon, Neil O'Brien stared up into the blackness and held his breath. There wasn’t any scheduled eclipse that he knew about. And this sudden darkness was far worse.
One of their forward scouts shouted back, "Halt!"
4
All the wagons came to a stop. Drivers tensely searched the blackness for any funnel of an approaching tornado. However, there had been no warning of any dangerous weather.
No strikes of lightning, no cracks or rolls of thunder, none. Only utter silence. Neil couldn’t even see his rein hand. Baffled, he hollered back to his wife in the wagon, “Darlin’, you okay?”
“Yes, Neil, is a storm brewing? Our babe’s asleep.” Other mothers in schooners behind them shoved their children under tick beds and waited, very scared.
The darkness increased, darkness on darkness.
But then a horrid grayness shot into being. Men pulled out rifles—rather senseless, they knew—and waited. A few little ones started screaming. However, almost immediately, the blackness, the dark abyss of sky vanished.
Instead, the waggoneers squinted into the blazing glare of the summer’s sun and a totally pristine blue sky. Hundreds of voices rushed to fill the still air. Neil turned to Naomi, his sweetheart, who had come up behind him from the back of their wagon.
He put his free arm around her shoulders and said, "Strange, almost preternatural. What a dangerous incongruity! Suddenly that vast gigantic storm--largest I’ve ever seen—frightens and bedevils us, but then vanishes instantly."
"Neil, it might be a sign from the Almighty," She leaned closer to him where he sat, reins in hand.
Before he could answer, a scout shouted and the 2 wagons in front of them began moving again. He turned and flicked the reins. His wife backed into the shade of their schooner’s covering and lifted up their 6-month-old daughter Hannah, and softly sang a Quaker hymn.
5
As Neil guided their horses forward, he thought about the strange atmospheric phenomenon, remembering a few texts he had read at law school that had mentioned a similar strange sky a few years back. Sounded like superstition, but what could have caused such an atmospheric disturbance?
No huge storm that he had ever read about in college or law school. Finally, as the wagon train plodded along, he returned to contemplating his and Naomi’s future…about their chances in the Oregon Territory.
He was glad they weren't staying here on the Nebraska plains. Not that it doesn’t have potential—lots of level land for farming, but looks too dry. And I’d miss all the large forests—many oaks and elms. And in the Oregon Territory there were millions of Evergreens. This terrain’s almost treeless except by streams. No wonder some commentators call it a vast desert.
What a contrast to last week when they had camped back near the Missouri River where land stood thick with timber—very verdant and so fertile. He followed along behind the 2 schooners in front of their wagon, and 13 more behind, as their train of immigrants rolled alongside this wide river, the Platte... (
word meant 'flat' in French, coined by early explorers). Now don’t get high and mighty about all of your book-learnin. He smirked.
More and more, the rolling hills of eastern Nebraska Territory were lessening, the land flattening, turning to prairie, endless plains as far as he could see. When would they spot buffalo? He corrected himself, Bison; am I picking up ignorant speech?
Holding the reins with one hand, Neil took a swig of warm water from his cloth canteen. He momentarily contemplated whether the French term for the wide shallow river was the best, or if they should have kept the stranger, more alien sounding Oto Indian word, Nebraskier, meaning "flat water." But then the matter of the sky darkness came back to him, the dark foreboding and sinister aura of the phenomenon, and he pondered what it could signify.
6
Several hours passed. Behind him, in the wagon, Naomi was sewing and cooing to their little one. He wiped sweat from his face with his forearm again. So blazing hot! At least that threatening darkness provided momentary relief. ‘Must be 110 degrees at least.
Such a contrast to the downpour 5 days ago that had created a muddy mess for their wagons. But this excruciating heat seems to exude moisture. His shirt clung to his chest and back, utterly drenched, as if he had taken a dunk in the nearby river, though its sluggish water didn't look deep enough to get baptized in.
Their 4 horses plugged along the hoof-punched mud trail; he tied the reins to the post, yanked off his dripping shirt, wiped his face and arms, and wrapped it around his neck to ward off more sunburn there. Below his left rib, showed a large scar, the one from his battle in Tennessee against the Cherokee. It welted livid against his dark tan.
Jagged memory assaulted him--his partner holding a small bloody scalp, a child’s, and whooping with delight, boasting to Neil how they'd get rid of all of the red vermin, cursed aliens, the savages which tried to stop their move westward. Blood dripped into Neil’s mind like the sky darkness of hours before, all of it seeping from the small patch of hair hanging like a shredded rattler in his buddy’s hand.
Neil cussed! Banished the bloodied memory. He flicked the reins so hard their horses bounded ahead, pulling him too close to the wagon in front.
“Whoa…” he pulled back on the horses—the loud chatter of kids up ahead--and thought of his own baby and Naomi behind him within their wagon. His wife had stopped singing. Probably heard me take God’s name in vain. Scanning out across the shallow water on his left, Neil tried to see the far side of the river. But too much humid haze.
7
Then he turned behind to see what his wife was doing. Their baby, Hannah, lay wrapped tightly in a thin sheet, asleep on the Quaker quilt covering their small mattress that rested on packing crates. Naomi sat behind the infant, peeling potatoes, her blouse wet-damp against her bosom and pleasingly open at the neck, her long mahogany hair a tumble of wrap up on her head, a few wisps clinging to the sweat on her forehead.
"Hey Love,” Neil asked, “how about bringin’ me some tea?"
She looked up at her man’s back, and smiled. “Sure, Neil.” Naomi reached down under the side of their mattress and pulled out a large stone jar. Then hefted it up, tipped, and poured out brown tea into a glass mason jar. Naomi felt proud of her husband, though sometimes now wished she were still back in Philadelphia and teaching at Penn Quaker School, not out here on this rough, dangerous trek. And wished my parents were still alive.
Naomi edged forward, holding onto the crates so as to not spill any liquid as their wagon rocked and jostled over uneven ground. One wheel slid into a mud-hole and the wagon lurched. But she caught herself with a hand against one of the stays supporting the overhead fabric cover.
Grabbing the reins, Neil calmed the horses as they righted the wagon and plodded on again. He felt her hand on his bare shoulder, turned back and looked down into her luminous eyes, great with kissed closeness, sweat glistening on her forehead and cheeks. Wanted to swoop her up into his arms…
but he only visually caressed her, with intensity into her irises, and took the tumbler from her calloused hands, and turned back to watch the horses.
Behind him, his wife’s hand lingered on his shoulder, then slid it down his side and mischievously pinched him. He sloshed his tea, some slurping
over the rim and landing on his legs. He grabbed for her hand but she had retreated. 8 “Just you wait, you ornery sprite, you’ve got yours comin’ later. Is that kind of tomfoolery proper for a young school marm?”
Naomi’s gentle laughter came to him as she picked up their 6-month old daughter, no doubt holding her close, probably giving her to breast. And he thanked God above for his young wife.
Later in a lawyer-like moment, he marveled how he still used high-falutin’ literary terms like ‘sprite’. Out here in the wild west of the Nebraska Territory, many pioneers and trappers couldn’t write basic prose, let alone reference out literary allusions. No time for study when ever’ waking moment meant hard work.
Should I have stayed in Rhode Island and finished my law courses? But then I wouldn’t have met Naomi! However then somber images crowded in--and had to bury her folks and 216 other dead bodies interred in the spring thaw ground in St. Louis, decimated by the small pox. Another death haunted him—blood seeping guilt…that dripping scalp of the little savage hangin’ in his friend’s hand…No! I won’t think of that.
Remember good times! Focus on Naomi—making love. Weeks before when they first met, she had looked so severe in her sedate Quaker dress, but she was all heat and passion hidden away within. And that brought back passionate images of their wedding night! Better not dwell on that.
He noticed the horses had slowed, and shook the reins. Maybe if they hadn’t decided to go west, he could have taken her back to Providence, Rode Island after their wedding and shown her his old stomping ground, got her a small frame house, and she could be tending their daughter and walking down to Dutch’s Dry Goods, while he read the Law…
but corpses of savages clotted on the ground, their lodges burning and that dripping hair in his friend’s hand. God, Stop it!
9
Neil looked ahead at the 2 wagons in front of him as they rounded a slight bluff and wondered how long before they reached the Weeping Water camp site. Would it be safe? The Pawnee natives were unpredictable. Look how they slaughtered that village of Arapaho several years ago! And their oppression of the Oto. On the other hand, Pawnee hatred of the Lakota might help us, when we get to Chimney Rock. Indians are so tribal…
well that’s prejudice thinking…as if we Europeans aren’t. Neil remembered his study of the Napoleonic Wars, and the infighting among American easterners even now.
A horde of flies circled and he batted at them with his free hand. The horses were sweating profusely and whipping their tails against the endless flies…must’ve swarmed up from Egypt, compliments of Moses.
Speaking of the Good Book, he now heard Naomi singing a Scripture passage to their daughter. His wife was versing a line: “Be kind to foreigners, aliens in your midst, angels unawares. Yes, dear Lord, yes.”
Yeah sure, right! Neil frowned. Dark images of the Cherokee war came back. Sometimes the Bible’s downright stupid! Be kind to killers? Savages? That’s what most of the redskins are. Aliens who show no mercy to us or their own kind, other tribes.
Natives were so strange in their thinking, the way they could attack friendly wagon trains out here, without warning, slaughtering everyone, and executing whole families at wilderness farms back in Kentucky.
The savages, even their squaws, mutilated the bodies! Take that German immigrant we found with his entrails torn out of his body, his intestines wrapped all the way around an oak tree…tied there by his own guts left to bleed to death slowly. Dispicable aliens!
But then gruesome images of his best friend with the small bloody trophy seared bleeding script on Neil’s mind, the proverbial writing on his own inner wall, and he cursed loudly. And again harshly, and whipped the horses.
10
“What’s wrong Dearheart? Do you need me?” Naomi asked from in the wagon. “Please don’t take our Savior’s name in vain.”
Neil didn’t answer, but focused with his lawyer mind trying to argue his conscience down. His wife didn’t say anymore, began singing again. The fervent words of the song scalded his conscience. He battled back against the guilt. But trying to justify himself, arguing against the Almighty, the judge of the cosmos was a nigh bit more than his ability. But oh God, why do you emphasize we should care for aliens? Think of your servant; they gutted him to a tree!
Clumps of box elders stood tall with dense thickets of raspberries by the flat river. But Neil couldn’t focus on the scenery. He grimaced and again swung at hordes of flies swarming around him and the horses. What if I was assigned as a defense attorney for savages? This is hard. Well, if I were a savage, then white folks would seem like aliens, too. We’ve taken lots of land. And there’s the broken treaties. Even with the derned Cherokee. But heck…
Neil flicked the horses angrily to speed them up as he realized they had again fallen back a few yards. But suddenly the wagon in front of him stopped.
"Tarnation! What now?" Neil stood up and stared ahead. If the wagon train kept stopping, they wouldn’t make it to Chimney Rock for days, and then would get caught in early snow before getting over the Rockies through the pass.
Neil waited—hopefully the stop wasn’t because the scouts had spotted signs of natives. Out here they were likely to be hostiles. He took off his brown hat and wiped more sweat and grime from his forehead. Then glanced up toward the glaring sun and ran fingers through his wet brown hair. Remembered the strange atmospheric occurrence earlier.
He turned back to the hooped opening behind him. Inside, in muted light, on their mattress propped on top of crates, kegs and large trunks, Naomi sat nursing Hannah.
11
Neil grinned wide remembering the rambunctious night only 15 months ago, right after they had seen the justice of the peace. But then he bit his lip at the somber images which crowded in--the shallow grave which he had dug for his wife's parents, their skin all pocked up, only 2 of hundreds of people who had frenzied to death in an epidemic that had descended on St. Louis for months in the spring--
Yelling!
What now?! His warm memories shattered away.
Coming at a gallop, one of the scouts dashed up to the wagon in front of them, waving his hat as if warding off storms of bumble bees. And stopped. Loud conversation but too indistinct to hear.
Neil quickly looped the reins on the wagon stay, jumped to the ground and hurried forward. It was the short French Canadian, the one with a mangy trapper's hat. How could he wear that thing in this heat?
The trail guide suddenly trotted alongside the wagon toward him. Even before he reached Neil, the guide pulled up on his reins, and shouted in his heavy accent, "Got problems! Scout Lefty hasn’t returned. And there’s horse tracks just up ahead; probably Pawnee. Most of 'em been passive these days, but there was an attack on a train a few weeks bac’. Get out yer rifle ‘n stay eagle-eyed."
Before Neil could answer, the scruffy guide giddied his horse and trotted on past him to the next schooner behind him.
_________________________
After his tachyon ship flung out of hyperspace, bursting from the bubbled warp, explorer Uzx Hjxthzgvk mentally felt-skinned many grassy undulating hills and streams below on this alien world and emotionally warmed, wishing he could skxxjh.
And beyond the warm hills lay flat expanses of endless grass and wildlife for miles! 12 "Such tactile wealth!" his skin gloried in joyful anticipation. "What luxuriating wonder." He virtually caressed many strange plants growing up from the grassy terrain near a wide river.
“So much liquid! Visible above ground--zjzhgtqz!" The Orxxjhian smiled at the glory of this new world. This wondrous place would be a tactile for many rotations. So what if it’s a small planet rotating a minor yellow sun.
He would somehow justify the research, though the data feeling into him from the ship emphasized there were no great techno-cities here--no extensive statistics to be analyzed and statted; and these few conscious inhabitants were only skinny primates… with no tails for ritual and support, and a species of such limited basic intelligence at that.
But nevertheless, this world showed promise. He grinned wide with his facial orifice and shifted his deep feel on the ship's instruments. Data flowed in on one of the primates crouched below, evidently hiding in the odd foliage.
Yes, the Terran alien was spying up at their ship using only his visual percepters and the aural lobes in his head. Probably not a threat--obviously incapable of distance-feeling, only has basic self-consciousness, medium intelligence for a primate, pre-literate, dark-skinned, strong energy level and brave, but strangely overly filled with dread....
Wilcox, Daniel. The Feeling of the Earth (p. 13). Kindle Edition.
February 2026
The Lady in the Garden
A picture-post-card date near the wide
Serpentine sway of the wide Schuylkill River
Meandering through Central Philly's park garden,
Towered over by leaning elms, while 3 long canoes
Swift by to the paddling of Ivy League collegians.
Gazing at my dear companion in the Garden
A Quaker girl, Karen, chestnut-caped round
In waist-length hair like a swaying black ephod,
Vivid in her red chambray shirt and blue jeans,
Is an aspiring concert violinist but converses
Passionately about King's March in 3 months.
Myself, drafted, a Conscientious Objector
Working with lost-saken kids in a mental ward,
Disturbed by their absent parents' bad living,
But am still so youthfully focused and narrowed,
More concerned with my companion's
Figured shape than humanity’s ship of state.
Gazing at Karen, hoping for love in the Garden
We sit cross-legged on the lush parkway green,
Getting ready to eat our carefully bagged meal
Of 2 peanut butter and grape sandwiches,
As we discuss the ravages of far-off Nam
And Bob Dylan's 'hard rained' croons.
Sharing deeply with her in the Garden
But then I inhale a fuming putrid odor
Coming from behind us; I twist and see
About 6 feet away this bag of a lady in a filthy rag
Of a dress lunging slowly forward, hanging
Onto the ugly mesh of a shopping bag.
Her stench to high heaven wafts so rancid that
I pinch my nose tightly and turn away.
Gazing (instead) at my date in the Garden
But lo and behold! my dear violinist rises
And welcomes the old hag, “Hi Lady, please join us
For our Sunday snack here in the warm sun?”
but I get all upside-down in my face
Gazing, surprised and frustrated in the Garden
As the homeless hag sprawls haggardly on the grass,
Next to us, her wretched, spotted shift
Wrinkling up her scraggly legs. She reaches
Out a grubby hand, grabs a sandwich,
And shoves half of it in her narrow jaws,
Chews open-mouthed and teethed.
I fume at this ugly interloper in the Garden
But then am shocked awake, almost too late,
Jesus emphasized on 'the least of these"!
I join my dear musician's sharing our meal,
Thus we commune 3 of human kind,
Below swaying trees of compassioning
In this modern caring Garden of hope.
1st pub. in The Oak Bend Review
then in Dark Energy, a collection of Daniel's published poetry.
Get the book at Amazon.com and local bookstores.
January 2026
their gemmed lines
caught in the snout of their swine’d living
dung
--
midlife mighty effort
superficial
routines galore rigamarole;
throw out lifelines--
they flunk down, skittering back empty;
treading harsh storm-tossed sea
--
seeking the True
a lightwaveseeker
a psalming of verbal hands,
but the multi-billions slain
trillions lost in utter pain,
drowning under nature’s torrential
ponderous hurricane, and humans'
endless abuses and slaughtering wars
made worse by religious babbled
towers of insidious theolies
that claim to be glad tidings,
but are horrid in fact,
all of us humans pre-damned
but the limited few elect;
nearly worse--atheisms'
unweaving of rainbow’s splendor
(of all that is true, kind, good, and just)
dismissed as myths, delusionist--
--
Retreaded, not yet ‘board and carded’
I’m retreaded but road-tired,
Rolling across cantankerous land
Though, thank heavens—knock around
On pavement
And redwood,
Not yet sent off to a ‘board and card’ mansion,
Rehearsing....
You know where decks and bingo
“Was a dog…” chips or
Markers
Define the tokened measures of your/our life--
Or where, too
Reclining and breathing entertain you/us.
Or tipped-wobbly with 4-wheels and unfeeling-ed feet
I walker about at Morro Strand beach-coast
Staggering in wonder...
Here
Until my brief spark of awed experience embers out
Gone...
Yet Reality--
more than energy and matter
of the trillion-starred cosmos--
Ultimately
Transcendent
NOVEMBER 2025:
Harvest Moon, All Honeyed
He put a May basket
on her 3-step porch
by the light door in Adams,
a small Nebraska village,
and ran fast away
with backward eyes.
She all skinny girl
in cottony light dress
came out her door running--
chased him 3 blocks,
caught and kiss-well-slobbered
his resisting face
while inward, he grinned,
only 11, yet so girl-crazy-young.
Fast forward 18 years…
Lots of chasing and smooching
down
so many now faded street hideaways
blind alleys
and unromantic ends;
but then just
back from working on a kibbutz in the Middle East;
our wanderer met another lass in bonny March,
a spring gal at winter camp
snow crystalline, chaste, and demure;
She stood there silent
in the Idyllwild cabin doorway,
all red Scottish plaid bloused, harvest
sheaves of long golden tresses, luminous,
cascading way
down
her slender frame,
almost to her angular waist.
He and she sat on a couch, sharing deeply their thoughts,
warmed their snowy weekend,
but then later after a 1st date, they
both
retreated back to pattern-different lives.
He wavered and wandered again,
until
on a high hill
one radiant day at O'Neill Park
they, again, shared their beliefs and experiences,
in warm communion
Finally, on a fall Thursday night kissing date, he
asked the ever-ever question--
Yes, she said!
Newly Engaged,
hugging and kissing in wonder, they fogged his Chevy van windows
in the Orange city park
until
an officer rapped on their window glass.
Explained to,
that officer smiled and walked away;
While in romantic wonder,
they shared loving words
Below the
Harvest moon’s--
all-honeyed light.
--
The Drinking Cup
Lidded mugs have spared our good carpet
And kept heat in from harsh worldly winter,
Unless left too long like church tradition;
So ancient the quaffed cup of alleged meaning
Then the pandoraic stew of foul liquid,
Rotten down, unleashes a destructive
Stench from that fuming stein
So reeking the spoilt cup of alleged meaning
For the 30 Years War's Christian slaughter
Destroyed a third of all Germans for God,
That religious abyss of 1600’s chaos
So vicious, the lying rims of alleged meaning
Still the mugs of transcendent history,
Face-mugs of the Parable, Tree, and Way--
Move us to drink from the true Grail,
So bountiful the precious true cup of real care
Rather than from this modern beaker
The shot-glass of worthless negation
That denies moral realism and all worth,
So shallow this selfish tumbler without meaning
And national-will froths forth wafted down
From our instinctive goblet of choice,
Multi-millions lost from utter death drink;
So empty the full hip-flask of u.s. First
All to brain-celled data cups or porn chips;
Don’t ever swig, don’t guzzle this modern
‘Ail’ from a plastic Laughlin tumbler;
So blasted the bottle-wasted lack of meaning
But quaff, instead, live wine of becoming;
Drink from the true grail’s Transcendent,
Water-brimming glass of joyous flowing.
So morally filled the living cup of true meaning.
In the LIGHT,
Daniel Wilcox
1st pub. in
Wild Violet Literary Magazine;
then in pub. poetry book,
selahriver
--
AUGUST 2023:
Presence transcends
Drowned in family tragedy, despairing, distraught--
that morning earlier;
thus down encumbered,
he came to worship meeting, but not speaking
of his family’s severe circumstance, kept hidden;
But in the midst
of open expectant communion, Transcendent Light
shown forth in a stranger’s sudden
a cappella spiritual chorus--
a deep songing deepening within;
intense meaning lifted us gathered in communion--
vivid encouraging Hope;
That sacred chorus didn’t take away our shattered glass
lives, nor end many distraught
circumstances and tragedies--
but
Oh, what Hope filled within.
--
July 2023:
a beachcomber of Beauty
a why-ing kid
up
with go-vision eyes stretching
and out,
rambling
meandering rocky-rubble farm roads
and roaming over creeks, through timber strands,
brief forest, and out across pasture lands--
I discovered beautiful bits and lumps that matter
--pebbles, stones, and rocks
(especially when wet)
and odd ugly ones, to boot
on fun nature hikes
wide-eyed adventures--
outside of our minor village
in 50’s southeast Nebraska;
Put those bright objects, small hunks, in my pockets
where they lay heavy
or in my overloaded baggish hands,
carrying them home,
my free treasures of early/pre-youth
enlarging my throng of wonder
in my pine-walled basement room--
Yes, I became a rock-mongrel mutt;
And later found others, mostly bits of minerals,
my boyhood keepers
in the Black Hills, Rockies, Sierras,
and a small chunk of copper ore
from an open pit mine in Bisbee, Arizona,
and a few parched white bones from
a long-ago bison jump
near Lame Dear, Montana.
I became a boarder of pebbles, quartzes, feldspars, agates,
granite bits, and mica, sea-glass, iron pirate,
and who-know unknowns,
and fascinating shells and other sea life from 3 coasts--
a beachcomber of minor Beauty,
a voyager through this washed-up-n-down of life,
Adrift explorer, searcher, curious wanderer.
But now in receding elder age, mutated
with a stroke of bad luck,
I hesitantly hobble about with a rolling walker alone
along Pismo sand dunes and Morro Rock shores
still searching, seeking for more special riff-raff,
to add to my ‘treasured things,’
our rooms’ shelves;
Here they still lay waiting
inert for another
I/It encounter…
Oh, the aesthetic depth of minor things,
bits that matter which sometime
transcend
into present
WONDER!
Yes, objects of beauty that exist in Deep Time…
in not too many years,
I will leave them behind;
and those long-enduring things will
exist for others of the future.
And this long rumination of my life-long collections
Reminds me of a pebbled thought of beauty for living now--
We human primates get washed up
on this minor shore of galactic existence,
surrounded and crowded
by things and circumstances
we didn’t choose--
We all get roughed down and polished by adversity…
But the wonder of our human brain’s neural plasticity--
is we get to choose
how we respond to life’s circumstances,
harsh trials, and horrific tragedies--
Yes, until our death, we get to create anew
Each moment,
If only briefly.
--
Conclusion:
What has washed up on your shore today?
What beautiful pebbled moment of wonder?
Or what irritant, ache, troubling circumstance, or tragedy
has gotten lodged in your
oyster mind and heart?
What can you do to turn this troubled moment into a precious
gem/pebble/stone/agate?
--Daniel Wilcox
JANUARY 2023:
Awake at dawn
upending my camping mug
for a drink,
at dawn,
but no water slurp;
almost empty--
except for a gray web’s net
rim to rim;
below, a dark spider
silent dwelling
--
--
FEBRUARY 2022:
Meditation on Shimmering Palms
On more days and nights, an invalid,
In pain and loss, I often just want to go…
Unconscious;
But then, again, I stare out
To the wind and sun
From our upstairs
Window;
There tower above, 2 lone palms
In sight from my weak haven,
Swaying in that blue expanse
In a lively coastal wind,
Their mop-tops of slender fronds
Shimmering
Like flashing magnesium flares
From brilliant reflecting
Sunshine.
Those two undulating sentinels dance
over above my fading consciousness,
Ailing awareness--
Unconscious guards,
While I lay here filled with sacred
Remembrance, mindful
Of my former festive living,
Becoming, and doing….
Yes, the wonder of being a human primate
Living, but finite, so brief life, and this
Gift, this Present
Shimmering--
Then we’re gone.
Daniel Wilcox,
a mutant poet:-)
--
JANUARY 2022:
FLOATERS--a poetic reflection on coastal warm days, shortly before winter
I’m spent to despair,
For lost hope yearning,
Tried for years to rescue others
Caught in tangled news hours
Of hellish hate, intolerance, despair,
Wrong right-leftist spinners,
Those creedalists and secularists
Both deniers of the morally real--
Their abyss of modern sheol winter
Stop!
Abandon this somber cellared lament!
Instead,
My sweetheart suggests, Let’s visit
A coastal winery,
Say, I do,
We do.
Driving along a winding river valley,
We arrive, expectant,
Hoping for respite;
Then, listening to soft music,
Sipping small glasses of moscato and merlot
Enjoying a glad lackadaisical day,
Mellow and casual,
Light of heart,
Carefree, contented
In California’s autumn’s wonder
Below tall sycamores and elms;
After Thanksgiving before winter;
We bask in 86-degree warmth,
When unexpectedly a slightly curled
Leaf floats down before
My eyes,
And lands gently on my lap,
A died wonder for us to behold;
Then another drifter
Lets go from a large limb above,
A deep rust-brown leaf spattered
With light tan highlights and vein-lines,
Descends in front of us,
Swaying back and forth,
Languid,
Lightly
Floating down
Inches away from us,
Landing nearby
On the lawn;
I lay with my head way back,
Gazing up to the sky's azure blue,
As other gifts let go every few moments
From high above,
Swinging wide and graced,
Falling beauty in slow motion,
Floating, swaying;
I realize—here, now--
With this Present--
I could die free, released.
--
October 2021:
Retreaded, not yet ‘board and carded’
I’m retreaded but road-tired,
Rolling across cantankerous land
Though, thank heavens—knock around
On pavement
And redwood,
Not yet sent off to a ‘board and card’ mansion,
Rehearsing....
You know where decks and bingo
“Was a dog…” chips or
Markers
Define the tokened measures of your/our life--
Or where, too
Reclining and breathing entertain you/us.
Or tipped-wobbly with 4-wheels and unfeeling-ed feet
I walker about at Morro Strand beach-coast
Staggering in wonder...
Here
Until my brief spark of awed experience embers out
Gone...
Yet Reality--
more than energy and matter
of the trillion-starred cosmos--
Ultimately
Transcendent
--
October 2021:
Hearts-full, Not location or creed
But Evangelicals live for US First
They're group-egotists, of that proud sort
Water piped in from Mono Reservoir
Lush grass, high-tech, large-located houses;
But down below, poor refugees at that Wall
Live in patched together plastic tents,
Preyed upon by ruthless cartel killers,
Near their shack of tar ’n’ wood Jesus church
There 2 peasants, Manuel and Miriam grow
Food on their small acre of stony ground,
Open kind actions, smiles, warm with zest and care;
Their hearts-wide, simple lives touch others there.
Amen!
--
MAY 2021:
Flighting Surprise
In my morning mug
Cold milk, washed blue berries
Dark and delicious
Lay waiting for another swig
Though to one berry,
Adhering--
A wispy white feather
Or more briefly:
flighting surprise
in my morning mug--
adhering to wet blue berries
a wispy white feather
--
humming attack
wearing my fiery red shirt
for Christmas, I open our
sliding glass door;
to sudden jolt in front
of my startled face--
a flash of feathers hum-buzzes,
darts within inches of my eyes;
but the tiny bird flits away left
back to a flowering bush
along our fence--
me a reject
--
side of the road
gray shadowed mail box
engulfed in green, red-purple
bloomed jungle wonder
--
Twilight: Crossing Shimmering Streams into Dusk and Stars
--
fall back to autumn
treetops blazing gold
with the last light of this day--
we lift our eyes
--Daniel Wilcox
In the Light
January 2021:
bidingTImeabiding
A Psalm of Late Life
--
Color Me Fiery Intense Red
As a kid, expressive, creative, rambunctious,
something of a wild card
long into adulthood
I loved vibrant Green--
for abundant life, for exuberant energy, vividly alive
for beauty like in colors, emerald or jade,
for the natural world from creek to patch of woods
behind our house on the edge of Adams village,
to verdant forest green glens of the Sierras, Sequoia and Yosemite
But--
then, suddenly, unexpectedly, without conscious why;
spontaneous, impulsively one day in middle life,
I awoke
not liking green anymore…
viewing green instead as dull, insipid,
sickening, repetitious, odd,
over-done, humdrum…
Color me fiery Red--
riveting, intense, striking sparks of light
cardinal, crimson, scarlet burst into my eyes and consciousness
—passionate, dazzling, blazing, heated, different…
as in exploding firework sky rockets,
as pulsing red coals in a bonfire,
as an amazing psychedelic quilt by my sweetheart
like an Impressionistic painting, luminous in our house
to ruby red lava in Hawaii’s volcano, intense sunsets,
and Utah’s red rock
Red forever
--
September 2020:
a time for…
In the fall a time for springing
childhood,
festivals of Monet-splashed leaves
that my sister and I raked and piled high
in the deep ditch in front
and jumped down into,
and our large garden behind the parsonage
with pumpkins, melons, and withered corn rows...
and lightning bugs on the wane,
flashing on and off
full of fall...
--
A Psalm of Late Life
Pessimist of my oldering years
Preyed upon by lamentable loss
I find no balmy psalms to lyre
But after discovered liars
Only this harp
of yawps and howls,
I pray for transcendence,
This my modern yelled holler
My psalm of life end's exit
Dance in this sorrowing starred night
--
bidingTimeabiding
bite my teeth on famous lines
a hole lot of fragmented shells;
hunger hollows within--
deepening abyss
of lost longing
lone-ranging, reigning the distance
of a round heartless night
of a round heart-last light
lane-ranging, raining the day-stance
of last longing
steepening a-bless
fulness hallows within--
a whole lot of fragranced shalls;
bide my heart on famous lines
--
August 2020:
bolder utah
boulders
eye widening rock
pastels bold in harvest's sun--
basalt garden wonder
--
at the park's bat box
my grandson scooping up handfuls
of dust
and swinging it loose--
fogged clouds
lighted by sunshine
that disperse
back to cleated ground
--
gull wings
gull wings
lightly spraying over gray clod fields
6-year drought--
so 'irrigating'!
--
In Every Crisis
When flailed, blind-sided,
Going down fast in
A basket abyss shrivel of worth-loss
And hope fails all drowned,
Do we launch deeper into the Deep?
Do we weep,
Do we shrive?
Thrive?
For in every crisis
Chry-sal-is*
*From crawler to butterfly--chrysalis
Even in the worst, most evil events, each of us still has the difficult possibility of heeding Viktor Frankl’s shocking words about their horrific experiences in Auschwitz Concentration Camp:
“Between stimulus [even trying to survive at Auschwitz!] and response
there is a space.
In that space is our power to choose our response. In our response lies our growth and our freedom.”
“As we see it, an analogous relationship between the realm of human freedom and a realm superior to man is quite imaginable, so that man is endowed with free will...”
Viktor E. Frankl
“(26 March 1905 – 2 September 1997 was an Austrian neurologist and psychiatrist, and a Holocaust survivor, of Theresienstadt, Auschwitz, Kaufering and Türkheim. Frankl was the founder of logotherapy (literally "healing through meaning") a meaning-centered school of psychotherapy…part of existential and humanistic psychology theories. He is the author of over 39 books; he is most noted for his best-selling book Man's Search for Meaning based on his experiences in various Nazi concentration camps…
In 1941 he married his first wife Tilly Grosser, who was a station nurse at the Rothschild hospital. Soon after they were married, she became pregnant but they were forced to abort the child. Tilly died in the Bergen Belsen concentration camp. His father Gabriel died in the Terezin concentration camp (Theresienstadt) in 1942. His mother and brother, Walter, were both killed in Auschwitz
Bio from Wikipedia
--
For a list of published poems down below, skip this
Brief Bio Side:
How did I become a mutant with a red walker?
Got struck with bad stroke of bad luck 4 years ago, shortly after returning with my sweetheart from a 12,000 mile Ram camper van trip to the heartland of the U.S. and the Great Lakes. Plenty of scenic hiking, history-learning, photo-taking, cusine-enjoying. So many
beautiful natural scenes, historical places, colorful lighthouses and quilting stores!
Would you believe, we encountered 3 weeks of stormy weather in May and June?
About May the 24th I encountered a dense snow storm in western Colorado, gripped knuckle-hard my Ram steering wheel because of dangerous side-winds in eastern Colorado, barely missed 2 tornados in Kansas by about 5 minutes, but got severe lightning all about me.
And survived coat-cold weather in Michigan in June. Hit by heavy hail coming into Duluth, Minnesota.
And it rained, rained, rained--especially in Missouri.
However, we loved the trip:-)
Now I am virtually stuck here looking out at the summer fogged gloom of the Central Coast of California, at our plum-heavy tree, our 2 rambunctious cats, the Sphinx and Selah.
-----
You might like to do a Google sleuth and find washed up pieces of his poetic driftwood on the vast shores of the Internet.
Dan's wild lines have fallen to print in many magazines including vox poetica, Fish Food Magazine, Contemporary American Voices,
The Camel Saloon, Ascent Aspirations, Poetry Pacific, Dead Snakes, Paradise Review, The Mindful Word, Enhance Literary and Art Magazine, Knot Middle Eastern Literary Journal, Mouse Tales Press, Mad Swirl, Ancient Paths Literary Magazine, hotmetalpress.net, Front Porch Review, The Greensilk Journal, Bigger Stones, Lyrical Passion Poetry, Eunoia Review, The New Verse News, Decades Review, Quill and Parchment, Poydras Review, Counterexample Poetics, The Copperfield Review, Rubber Lemon, amphibi.us, Poetry Super Highway, Three Line Poetry, The Clockwise Cat, Liturgical Credo, Willows Wept Review, vox poetica, Structo Magazine #4, Four and Twenty, Gloom Cupboard, Clutching at Straws, The Centrifugal Eye, Wild Violet Literary Magazine, Lyrical Passion Poetry, A Handful of Stones, Haiku Journal, Right Hand Pointing, The Bicycle Review, Leaf Garden, The Recusant, Calliope Nerve, Static Movement, Unfettered Verse, outwardlink.net, protestpoems.org, Word Riot,
and
Moria Poetry, MediaVirus Magazine, Lunarosity, Hanging Moss Journal, The New Verse News, ocean diamond, The Writer's Eye, Mad Swirl, Abandoned Towers, Writer's Ink, The Scruffy Dog Review, Oak Bend Review, Crossing Rivers Into Twilight, Tipton Poetry Journal, The Cherry Blossom Review, Word Catalyst, The Houston Literary Review, Lucid Rhythms, Identity Theory, Halfway Down the Stairs, Frame Lines, Full of Crow, The Externalist, The Driftwood Review, Western Friend Magazine, Flutter Poetry Journal, Frostwriting, Words-Myth, Ink Sweat & Tears, Erbacce Print Journal, Sentinel Poetry Online, The November 3rd Club, the poetry warrior, The Shine Journal, Mississippi Crow Magazine, The Cerebral Catalyst, Anthrozine, Ink, Sweat, & Tears, Stylus Poetry Journal, Idlewheel Literary Friction, The Indite Circle, The Rogue Poetry Journal, The WriteSideUp, La Fenetre International Literary Magazine,The Other Side Magazine, Gambit, etc.
October 2019:
A Poetic Debacle of the American News
May 2019:
trembled
First pub. in Stylus Poetry Journal
April 2019:
playing blues
March 2019:
I became a beachcomber of beauty
February 2019:
El Paso
First pub. in Unlikely Stories IV
http://infiniteoceanoflightandlove.blogspot.com/2019/02/el-paso-rallys-political-contradictions.html
Alluded Fractures
A Twist of Words
First pub. in Counterexample Poetics
January 2019:
my gramma's beheading like the results of Dort
September 2018:
mused moments in nature
including
side of the road mailbox
california dazing
January 2018:
Lemons, "Pineapples" and Mexico
(for my dad)
October 2017:
MORNING GLORY
http://infiniteoceanoflightandlove.blogspot.com/2017/10/morning-glory.html
connudrumed Clockwise Cat
starbacked
https://www.yumpu.com/en/document/view/59489337/klox-and-katz-ink
October 2016:
a haiku, dripping rain vox poetica
http://voxpoetica.com/dripping-rain-drizzles/
December 2015:
bidingTimeabiding Dead Snakes
http://deadsnakes.blogspot.com/2015/12/daniel-wilcox-three-poems.html
Poem for My Dad Lightwaveseeker
Deaf to Death
http://infiniteoceanoflightandlove.blogspot.com/2015/12/personal-two-poems-for-my-dad.html
September 2015:
Ricochet Dead Snakes
First pub. Yes Poetry
End of a Rope
First pub. The New Verse News
http://deadsnakes.blogspot.com/2015/09/daniel-wilcox-two-poems.html
--
August 2015:
The Signal of the Flag
http://deadsnakes.blogspot.com/2015/08/daniel-wilcox-two-poems.html
The Wind Blew Away the Young
(Dedicated to Kurt Vonnegut)
First pub. in Mad Swirl
-
July 2015:
One Dog Night Dead Snakes
First pub. in Unlikely Stories 2.0
Film Over Our Eyes
First pub. in Camel Saloon
Juxtaposition
First pub. in Camel Saloon
April 2015:
Gazing on Gaza Contemporary American Voices
earstopper
First pub. in The Write Room
our 'checkered' past
https://contemporaryamericanvoices.wordpress.com/2015/04/
February 2015:
The Modern Covenant Dead Snakes
First pub. in The Cerebral Catalyst
Iraqi Temples
First pub. in The November 3rd Club
On Visiting Hemingway's Mansion
First pub. in The Rogue Poetry Review
http://deadsnakes.blogspot.com/2015/02/daniel-wilcox-three-poems.html
Moon River Poetry Pacific
First pub. in Ascent Aspirations
horse trailer
First pub. in lyrical passion poetry
http://poetrypacific.blogspot.com/2015/02/2-poems-by-daniel-wilcox.html
November 2014:
The Road to Elsewhere Fish Food Magazine
October 2014:
RELEASE OF KINDLE VERSION OF THE FEELING OF THE EARTH
August 2014:
The Pull-Out Coyote vox poetica
http://voxpoetica.com/pull-out-coyote/
dark cliff walls Three Line Poetry
http://threelinepoetry.com/issue.php?id=27&issue=27
July 2014:
If you haven't checked out any of my other creative websites, hark over to them:
http://www.selahriver.com/ Social and Spiritual and Personal Poems
http://lightwaveseeker.weebly.com/ More Poems and Stories, Light in the Darkness
http://lastthings.weebly.com/ Speculative/Science Fiction Poems and Stories
http:planktonpelican.weebly.com Puns and Other Odd Funnies
-
May 2014:
1967 Dead Snakes
http://deadsnakes.blogspot.com/2014/05/daniel-wilcox-three-poems.html
Use Your Head
First pub. in Unlikely Stories IV
Face-Overs
First pub. in Mouse Tales Press
JANUARY 2014:
THE FEELING OF THE EARTH
A Speculative Novel of the Past and the Future
-
In 2013:
Short story, "The Gift," in Scattered Hearts: An Anthology
and available on the website
November 2013:
Film Over Our Eyes Camel Saloon
http://thecamelsaloon.blogspot.com/2013/11/film-over-our-eyes.html
October 2013:
Juxtaposition Camel Saloon
http://thecamelsaloon.blogspot.com/2013/10/juxtaposed.html
September 2013:
The Dog's Bite...in Syria Dead Snakes
First pub. in The Recusant, UK
Gum Up
First pub. in Poydras Review
http://deadsnakes.blogspot.com/2013/09/daniel-wilcox-two-poems.html
August 2013:
Retreaded Poetry Pacific
http://poetrypacific.blogspot.com/2013/08/1-poem-by-daniel-wilcox.html
July 2013:
Nail Holes Enhance Literary Magazine
June 2013:
"Roll Ever Columbia" cavalcadeofstars
Northeast Night
two hands vox poetica
http://voxpoetica.com/two-hands/
May 2013:
The Last Libation Dead Snakes
First pub. in Sentinel Online
Midnight Voyager
http://deadsnakes.blogspot.com/2013/05/daniel-wilcox-two-poems.html
First pub. in La Fenetre in France
April 2013:
The Revolution Dead Snakes
First pub. in Lucid Rhythms
http://deadsnakes.blogspot.com/2013/04/daniel-wilcox-poem.html
March 2013:
Ah, Bird Poop Van Dead Snakes
First pub. in The Bicycle Review
November 2012:
In Every Crisis Ancient Paths Literary Magazine
After the Battle The Write Room
They Have Procedures Mad Swirl
Face-Overs Mouse Tales Press
October 2012:
At the Retreat Ascent Aspirations
September 2012:
Three Sons Fight and Allah Knot Magazine, Middle Eastern Journal
First pub. in outwardlink.net
Whether...an Arab Spring
First pub. in The New Verse News
Shell Casings
First pub. in different form in The Recusant
El Paso Unlikely Stories IV
Use Your Head?
http://www.unlikelystories.org/12/wilcox0912.shtml
Monks Brawl in Holy Sepulcher
First pub. in The New Verse News
August 2012:
AWOL Paradise Review
July 2012:
Shipping Thirty Pieces The Camel Saloon
http://thecamelsaloon.blogspot.com/2012/07/shipping-thirty-pieces.html
WayLight The Mindful Word
4-Letter Praise
http://www.themindfulword.org/2012/poems-daniel-wilcox-present-moment/
Discarding
First pub. in Tipton Poetry Journal
Present Moment
First pub. in Liturgical Credo
Retina Shadow
First pub. in The Greensilk Journal
Outside the Limit
First pub. in Flutter Poetry Journal
June 2012:
horse trailer Lyrical Passion Poetry
First pub. in Stylus Poetry Journal
May 2012:
Clammy Chops vox poetica
http://voxpoetica.com/clammy-chops/
Their Beekeeper's Moon The Greensilk Journal
http://www.thegsj.com/poetry_3_spring_2012.html
4th poem down
The Journey Rime of Faith Rubber Lemon
April 2012:
Lapping Ideas Front Porch Review
First pub. in The Centrifugal Eye
Out of the Carcass Enhance
March 2012:
" Let's Do the 'Twister'" The New Verse News
http://newversenews.blogspot.com/2012/03/lets-do-twister.html
February 2012:
Gum Up Poydras Review
End of a Rope
First pub. in The New Verse News
January 2012:
Human Imitation Bigger Stones
Joan of Arc The Camel Saloon
http://thecamelsaloon.blogspot.com/2012/01/joan-of-arc.html
December 2011:
Rock the Nations as a Cradle The New Verse News
http://newversenews.blogspot.com/2011/12/rock-nations-as-cradle.html
Sunday Morning Quill & Parchment
http://quillandparchment.com/archives/Dec2011/sund.html
November 2011:
Cape May Light hotmetalpress.net
The Mystery of Modern Life
Missouri's 'Job'
Markers
Ventura Beach
October 2011:
Summer of Love Quill & Parchment
First pub. in Wild Violet
http://quillandparchment.com/archives/Oct2011/summer.html
Reflection in Glass Westward Quarterly
First pub. in The Oak Bend Review
'Whether' The New Verse News
Of the Arab Spring
http://archive.feedblitz.com/8753/~4086452
Remix: Babbling On, Again, River Eunoia Review
http://eunoiareview.wordpress.com/2011/10/15/remix-babbling-on-again-river/
One Dog Night Unlikely Stories
http://www.unlikelystories.org/11/wilcox1011.shtml
Brief Decades Review
Mean 'Wile' Unlikely Stories
First pub. in Frame Lines
Tomorrow and Unlikely Stories
and Tomorrow and
Tomorrow
First pub. in The Medulla Review
July 2011:
Walls The New Verse News
http://newversenews.blogspot.com/2011/07/walls.html
June 2011:
Ah, Bird Poop Van amphibi.us
First pub. in The Bicycle Review
May 2011:
A Last The New Verse News
http://newversenews.blogspot.com/2011/05/last.html
April 2011:
Perception Poetry Super Highway
the bumps Haiku Journal
March 2011:
sliced Three Line Poetry
dark tent
black barred window
http://threelinepoetry.com/issue.php?id=2&issue=2
earstopper The Write Room
Our Indy Pacer
Casting Out
February 2011:
The Paradox of Truth Western Friend Magazine
Borderlines The Camel Saloon
http://thecamelsaloon.blogspot.com/2011/02/borderlines.html
Traveling Within The Camel Saloon
January 2011:
Time Lapse Widowmoon Press
The Animal Sound in the Trees Widowmoon Press
First pub. in The Driftwood Review
Stone Seal Widowmoon Press
First pub. in The Writer's Eye Magazine
The Cat's Scientist Windowmoon Press
First pub. Abandoned Towers Magazine
And many more before. Do a Google search and find more washed up pieces of his poetic driftwood on the vast shores of the Internet.
His wild lines have fallen to print in many magazines including vox poetica, Fish Food Magazine, Contemporary American Voices,
The Camel Saloon, Ascent Aspirations, Poetry Pacific, Dead Snakes, Paradise Review, The Mindful Word, Enhance Literary and Art Magazine, Knot Middle Eastern Literary Journal, Mouse Tales Press, Mad Swirl, Ancient Paths Literary Magazine, hotmetalpress.net, Front Porch Review, The Greensilk Journal, Bigger Stones, Lyrical Passion Poetry, Eunoia Review, The New Verse News, Decades Review, Quill and Parchment, Poydras Review, Counterexample Poetics, The Copperfield Review, Rubber Lemon, amphibi.us, Poetry Super Highway, Three Line Poetry, The Clockwise Cat, Liturgical Credo, Willows Wept Review, vox poetica, Structo Magazine #4, Four and Twenty, Gloom Cupboard, Clutching at Straws, The Centrifugal Eye, Wild Violet Literary Magazine, Lyrical Passion Poetry, A Handful of Stones, Haiku Journal, Right Hand Pointing, The Bicycle Review, Leaf Garden, The Recusant, Calliope Nerve, Static Movement, Unfettered Verse, outwardlink.net, protestpoems.org, Word Riot,
and
Moria Poetry, MediaVirus Magazine, Lunarosity, Hanging Moss Journal, The New Verse News, ocean diamond, The Writer's Eye, Mad Swirl, Abandoned Towers, Writer's Ink, The Scruffy Dog Review, Oak Bend Review, Crossing Rivers Into Twilight, Tipton Poetry Journal, The Cherry Blossom Review, Word Catalyst, The Houston Literary Review, Lucid Rhythms, Identity Theory, Halfway Down the Stairs, Frame Lines, Full of Crow, The Externalist, The Driftwood Review, Western Friend Magazine, Flutter Poetry Journal, Frostwriting, Words-Myth, Ink Sweat & Tears, Erbacce Print Journal, Sentinel Poetry Online, The November 3rd Club, the poetry warrior, The Shine Journal, Mississippi Crow Magazine, The Cerebral Catalyst, Anthrozine, Ink, Sweat, & Tears, Stylus Poetry Journal, Idlewheel Literary Friction, The Indite Circle, The Rogue Poetry Journal, The WriteSideUp, La Fenetre International Literary Magazine,The Other Side Magazine, Gambit, etc.
There are 3 collections of Daniel's published poems,
Psalms, Yawps, and Howls,
Dark Energy
and selah river.
All 3 areavailable at Amazon, Barnes & Noble, local bookstores, and coffee shops.
For Daniel's speculative writing, futuristic poems and stories warp over to
http://lastthings.weebly.com/.
Other websites include
http://seaquaker.weebly.com
http://lightwaveseeker.weebly.com/
http://planktonpelican.weebly.com/
http://infiniteoceanoflightandlove.blogspot.com/
and
shimmeringpebblesinthelightstream.blogspot.com
And OLDER PUBLISHED POEMS:
December 2010:
Ricochet Yes, Poetry
November 2010:
Of Princes and Frogs Liturgical Credo
But the Cesspool...
Right Here
The High Way Chair
Present Moment
http://liturgicalcredo.wordpress.com/present-moment-daniel-wilcox/
The So n' So Argument MediaVirus Magazine
October 2010:
The Last Act Midwest Literary Magazine
Short Story
Morning Four and Twenty
http://4and20poetry.files.wordpress.com/2010/10/4and20_v3i10.pdf
A Word from the Tree Front Porch Review
September 2010:
All 'Hail' Gloom Cupboard
August 2010:
A Love Affair The Clockwise Cat
Iraqi Temples
http://clockwisecat.blogspot.com/2010/07/two-poems-by-daniel-wilcox.html
Giving Talk 'A' Graded Clutching at Straws
July 2010:
Sign of the 12 Rubber Lemon #1
Tomorrow The Medulla Review
and Tomorrow
and Tomorrow
June 2010:
The Hatted Fish Structo Magazine #4 UK
http://structomagazine.co.uk/
The Canine Trail vox poetica
http://voxpoetica.com/the-canine-trail-memorial/
Onslaught Danse Macabre
Live Branch Reach Willows Wept Review
Night Watch Psalm
May 2010:
manta ray Lyrical Passion Poetry
Retina Shadow The Greensilk Journal
http://www.thegsj.com/poetpg5sp2010.html
The Teeth of It The Centrifugal Eye
April 2010:
Israeli Morning Wild Violet Literary Magazine
http://www.wildviolet.net/2010/04/13/israeli-morning/
red peaches A Handful of Stones
The Last Exit Right Hand Pointing
March 2010:
molten froth waves A Handful of Stones
February 2010:
Sayings so Unkind The Centrifugal Eye
Ah, Bird-Poop Van The Bicycle Review
Three Poems The Copperfield Review
Midnight Voyager Unfettered Verse
The Cheyenne Gift Scattered Hearts Anthology
Short Story
January 2010:
On Visiting Leaf Garden
Hemingway's Mansion
Only Left Standing
The Modern Covenant Calliope Nerve
Of Things Past Static Movement
and Future
December 2009:
The Nemesis Counterexample Poetics
Three Sons outwardlink.net
Divergent Learning
A Song of Songs
http://www.outwardlink.net/features/danielwilcox/song_of_songs_into_olding.html
The Wind Blew Away Mad Swirl
the Young
Caught in the Act
in Iraq
October 2009:
To Whom it Does Not protestpoems.org
Concern
http://protestpoemsdotorg.blogspot.com/2009/10/daniel-wilcox.html
August 2009:
End of a Rope The New Verse News
http://newversenews.blogspot.com/2009/08/end-of-rope.html
Her Strands Writer's Ink
Walking the Night
July 2009:
Dark Energy Diminuendo Press
Book of Poems
The Trouble with Names In the book Writing Cheerfully on the Web
and Terms
a few blasphemies The Recusant
The Winged Ones
Black Light
Comcerning this 500th
Anniversary of John Calvin
and his Tongues of Fire
June 2009:
love's bullion Full of Crow
mowed field
May 2009:
Picture Identity Oak Bend Review
Under the Sky World The Green Silk Journal
Hardwood Tap Dancer
http://www.thegreensilkjournal.citymax.com/poetrypg2may09.html
Ever After The Shine Journal
Our Human Real Estate Word Catalyst
The Miser
For Goodness Sake
April 2009:
Cambria in Gray The Houston Literary Review
restless slumber
March 2009:
'ExHume' the Mind Counterexample Poetics
The Incredible Shrinking
Consciousness
Eye Bandits
A Twist of the Words
Alluded Fractures
The Cup Wild Violet
http://www.wildviolet.net/linked_lives/cup.html
February 2009:
Mean 'wile' Frame Lines
The Cat's Scientist Abandoned Towers Print Magazine #2
Cold as Hell Frostwriting
First pub. in The Externalist
In Store for Less the poetry warrior
January 2009:
Missing Star and Cradle Danse Macabre
December 2008:
Live Branch Reach Western Friend Magazine
Less Is More
The Daughter's Return Word Riot
Body Parts
California Mythic Death Moria
AWake
http://www.moriapoetry.com/wilcox.html
November 2008:
The Nature of Fishhooks The Centrifugal Eye
Art Clasps Mississippi Crow Print Magazine
Getting the Slip
Up Early
after the cyclone Hanging Moss Journal
A Modern Psalm
Monks Brawl in Holy The New Verse News
Sepulcher
http://newversenews.blogspot.com/2008/11/monks-brawl-in-holy-sepulcher.html
The Mythic Mask Mad Swirl
after the loss
The Slowness of Danger
three haiku ocean diamond
Stone Seal The Writer's Eye
The Faces of Rock Danse Macabre
Short Story Reprint
Perception in Late Night Word Catalyst Magazine
Under the Big Sky
A Song of Songs
Into Olding
October 2008:
Research Filing Cabinets Mad Swirl
In the Far Lane The Scruffy Dog Review
Wasted Wealth Word Catalyst Magazine
The Shell Zebra Mussels In
September 2008:
The Dog's Bite The Recusant
The Loss of April Oak Bend Review
Reflection in Glass
The Lady in the Garden
Baja Abandoned Towers
Without Rime
The Possibility of Suburbia
Divergent Learning
Paradise
The Space Clown
First pub. in Right Hand Pointing
August 2008:
Gargoyle The Clockwise Cat
Utter Common Sense
library census
Reflection While
'Lying' on a Bed at a Slant
Collapsed Falling
http://clockwisecat.blogspot.com/2008/07/five-themed-poems-by-daniel-wilcox.html
July 2008:
Dirge in the Night Danse Macabre
Night Watch Psalm The Cherry Blossom Review
Messed-Up News Crossing Rivers Into Twilight
June 2008:
The Road Kill Cliche The New Verse News
May 2008:
Two Haiku Ink Sweat & Tears
The Crucified Isle The Centrifugal Eye
April 2008:
Black Samaritan The Houston Literary Review
of the Street
Rock Life
Partially Found
Poem Lost--
Hemingway
By the Waters erbacce print journal
surreal morning
Stoned for Truth
Dear Susan B
The Modern The Cerebral Catalyst
Covenant
March 2008:
the animal sound in the trees The Driftwood Review
Of Things Past and Future Half Way Down the Stairs
http://www.halfwaydownthestairs.net/index.php?action=view&id=76
February 2008:
Aesopian Snail The Cerebral Catalyst
Discarding Tipton Poetry Journal
http://tiptonpoetryjournal.com/tpj8/wilcox.htm
Waking at the Funeral Lunarosity
Montana's History
Lesson
The 'Darlossness' The Clockwise Cat
of Dawkins
http://clockwisecat.blogspot.com/2008/01/five-themed-poems-by-daniel-wilcox.html
Only Left Standing
What Nerve of
the 23rd Psalm
Artesian Well
of Voice
Losing Your Head
January 2008:
Be Forewarned The New Verse News
http://newversenews.blogspot.com/2008/01/be-forewarned.html
December 2007:
Outside the Limit Flutter Poetry Journal
The Revolution Lucid Rhythms
The Space Clown Right Hand Pointing
November 2007:
Shell Casings The Recusant
shadowed garden The Green Silk Journal
http://www.thegsj.com/page/page/5161101.htm
Conflicted West The Writer's Eye
Fable of the North The Centrifugal Eye
My Canadian And in the book Dark Energy
Memories
From Below
the Line
Caught in the Act The Clockwise Cat
http://clockwisecat.blogspot.com/2007/11/five-political-poems-by-daniel-wilcox.html
Kiss of Death
'Heir Ball'
The Day My
Battery Died
Carpet Diem
Pomona Hills Identity Theory
Her Santa Right Hand Pointing
Barbara Way
Court Hearing
The Faces of Rock The Danforth Review
Short Story
http://epe.lac-bac.gc.ca/100/202/300/danforth/2007/no20/fiction/09_07/wilcox.htm
2 Haiku Idlewheel literary friction
http://idlewheel.wordpress.com/volume-2/esch-haiku/
Summer of Love Wild Violet
in Philadelphia
http://www.wildviolet.net/blue_moon/summer_love.html
Harvest Time Words-Myth
and in the book Dark Energy
Yosemite The Indite Circle
Sitting... Word Riot
Natural Selection
Lapping Ideas The Centrifugal Eye
I Love You Flannery
O'Connor
The Last Libation Sentinel Poetry Online
http://www.sentinelpoetry.org.uk/0207/wilcox.html
Redux of Moose Words-Myth
and Men
And in the book Dark Energy
Iraqi Temples The November 3rd Club
One The Green Silk Journal
http://www.thegsj.com/page/page/4231640.htm
3rd poem down
On Hemingway's Mansion The Rogue Poetry Journal
Fall's Impression The WriteSideUp and Dark Energy Book
Cold as Hell The Externalist and in the book Dark Energy
Word from Tree La Fenetre International Literary Magazine
The Wearing
Midnight Voyager
The Essence of Software
The Cat n' Mouse Anthrozine
http://anthrozine.com/ptry/cat.and.mouse.html
3 Haiku The Stylus Poetry Journal
Sunday Morning The Other Side Magazine
The First Gulf War The Evangelical Visitor
Supper The Other Side Magazine
Fall Eyes Gambit
Editorial Columist The Forty-Niner of Cal State University, Long Beach
Other Poems and Articles Small Magazines and School Publications
Short Story Award Scholastic Magazine National Short Story Contest
We're Disturbing the Chaos Honorable Mention
--
Daniel's wandering, wondering lines have appeared in many magazines including Contemporary American Voices, vox poetica, Dead Snakes, Word Riot, Centrifugal Eye,
Write Room, Enhance, Static Movement, Counterexample Poetics, and Unlikely Stories IV.
Three large collections of his published poetry are in print: Dark Energy,
Psalms, Yawps, and Howls, and selah river. And a speculative novel, The Feeling of the Earth, one of alternate history and futuristic science fiction.
Before that, Dan hiked through the University of Nebraska, Long Beach State (Creative Writing), Montana, Pennsylvania, Europe, Palestine-Israel, Mexico, Canada, Arizona, and many other states. Now he resides with his quilting wife on the central coast of California. Life gets difficult in elder age as I got a stroke of bad luck, so am mostly house-bound. But as circumstances get tough--we MUTANTS get tougher:-).
