Category: Poetry

We did not live in a mansion. We lived in Kokomo. We didn’t have a second or a third home. We had a camper down on Pondera on Sand Point. My father’s black ties were thin. In winter his suits were wool. My mother’s Mink went to her waist. When we moved down here in…

In my twenties I traveled the country. I shied away from bars and clubs and I staid sober all the time. At some clubs I went to after parties, after concerts. But I also went to Church while on the road on Sundays and Wednesday night meals. At the Church there would be a guitar…

I was born on the cusp of the Bay of Pigs. My father was a multimillionaire. A Military Contractor in the Aerospace and Nuclear Defense Industry. He lost his company on a Breach of Contract in the Seventies. I lived in Spokane Washington just about three hundred miles from Banf. What was in Mao Bay?…

Vous savez, on se passe bien. De cette rivière pourtant par la rivière, je veux dire les gens contentera s’adonner, je rentre en aléa. Allez, attends, traverse et tu avais. J’ai encore samedi. Dondon, français de je vais bâtard, entre la sélection, j’adore penser le tien. Dans ton traverse, va prendre ton parle au théâtre.…

There is a field that I will never see in the Northwest. And a narrow avenue in Europe. I live here away from the ocean as well. I tend to my PTSD and Diabetes and am responsible. And I am happy. I was never sure what was worse, the ending of another day… or the…

Smiles. Once in a while and then, the ice would rupture. But someone if they wanted to could capture the radiant pleasures of spring, isolate them from insignificants, surround them with the solitude of winter. To keep smiling you could, harbor your wishes in bottles and picture yourself inside them and live transported, transposed, telepathic…

When a diamond becomes rust. The violet rise of smog from the soil. The summer becomes winter and then back again. And winter becomes summer only to find that the trees have not forgotten their names. That the park is still open across the street and that televisions open their doors at 6:00 AM every…

John Updike, Kurt Vonnegut, Dylan Thomas. But it was Robert Browning that I learned to write from. Updike taught me how to live. Vonnegut taught me how to read. Thomas taught me how to dream.

Standing up for what you believe. Laying down for what you need. I was not a child of ethics. I am not a man of decisions or judgements. I am not a man of sadness. I am not a man of memory. Here beyond the Cities Chase and the Catalog Showroom. Beyond the camera’s faceless,…

is a snake in a broken tree limb. Dinner at seven o’ Clock and the evening is still with us wrapped in daylight. The sound of the wind is waiting. The sound of the bugs across the pond. I have only mentioned once or twice, what I was looking for… a day a little longer…

is the silence of the sun. A window. A door. Things that shouldn’t be. A clock is the wisdom of a month, laughing at me in rolling laughs. I told you in something in-between, something over here in French. If you are curious find me. Study, again. See if you can overcome the obstacles, the…

The sun whispered across the field. This is where we slept last night in a tent. We will head into town this morning for breakfast; there is a Church there associated with the last one. We stay along the East Coast these days. A candle at night in the tent in a candle holder. It…

The water ripples down through the creek like steel and glass. The grass blades rise to the chest and the knees and the window. The storm billows its head above the clouds. The blades whip violently left and right. Inside the window as the evening fades to softness the Christmas Tree and its ornaments glisten…

I am a child, sir. And you? I am old. And I am getting older. So am I. What is your question, child? How old is a sun? I was hoping you could tell me. I am as old as you are and no younger. And I am as young as you, but I am…

And the things we number ourselves by. Sidewalks and chain link fences. Orange in the Fall with orange and blue mums on the front porch. These are the things we stress, open doors leading past living rooms that are never used. Neighbors who never come over, who never talk on the phone. My mother with…