Tuesday, September 23, 2014

Night Light

Light presses against me
my field
of view.

I can't see
with my hands
I form blinders
to either side                 of my eyes
to push away the                     light

I need
to see the sky
all the stars
born before
the time
of light.

Sunday, September 14, 2014

Just in Time

Just in time
wire-legged flamingos,
flaming pink,
Just in time
for chill September's
to arrive,
just in time
to tip maple leaves
flaming red
but not as bright
as my plastic

Case of 24 Large 26

Tuesday, August 5, 2014


bat flittering through
the strobe of night lightning
intent on one moth

Monday, July 21, 2014

Three Haiku for Flying Creatures

The flowers are here!
But the tiger swallowtail
flies up to the sun.

--- \o/ ---

Robin runs in spurts
along the road: who praises
the running of birds?

--- \o/ ---

Ragged butterfly,
how can you flutter up
more hole than wing?

--- \o/ ---

Sunday, July 13, 2014


Head down
scuff the gravel
cool between tall trees
step out into the bright heat
of home perched alone
on the crisp hilltop.

Head up
rustle ripe timothy
growing wild, hiding home
though you stretch up tiptoe
under that same sun to see
then step through and crunch across.

Straight ahead
driving by on the highway
tar and bricks steal proof of memory . . .
I do not follow that now paved road
nor look for overgrown paths to follow
just in case
the house stares back at me.

(Written during a workshop at the boyhood home of Stanley Kunitz; given themes: place and time.)

Wednesday, July 9, 2014


Today I heard you crack branches
and rip through tangled leaves
as you leaped up the impossible slope
above the roadway.

Seeing is not needed for believing.
I knew it was you.

When I did see you, I was not looking.
My eyes were surveying leafy side roads
into the park as I whizzed past,
seeking the road not taken.

You can't believe everything you hear,
but you were soundless anyway.

Like an icon in a Celtic mystery
you stood in the middle of the path
hocks hidden in the mist and antlers high,
echoing branches of dead trees.

Believing is not seeing.
I know you are out there, sight unseen.

Monday, July 7, 2014

Galloway Brook

     . . . there
      the brook takes five bends . . .
                             sparkling white with captured sun
undulating brown beneath evergreens
                       twirling a trio of sky blue eddies
        mirroring green overhanging maples
               retreating as low golden shallows cut by shadows . . .
     there . . .