Crawling, slowly, firmly, effortless towards me.
Billowing from sea over hills,
the blue sky is envious of its charm.
What can it offer but a backdrop of blue?

Its ever morphing silhouette captures our gaze and fascinates.
Not to be revisited, once witnessed, suddenly changed.
Forever, only in memory it plays.

Lie back, enjoy it's visions,
for it is past, as quickly as it came.

Table full
portions grand
colors and flavors
tempt and persuade.

We want for not
the bounty received
thankful for blessings
pleasantries and conversation between.

Recall when rich
with family
with friends
we rarely repent
having acquired our full share.

Oversharing on your social feed
Everyone knows your wants and needs
Save for those who really care
To the rest of us you need not bear
Your lunch and dinner were had, we see
Relationship status updated several times a week
How can it be?
I remember a day we shared with ourselves
Worries and whims on paper with pen
In a book called a journal or diary
it would have been
Discreet it was then
As it should be again
I can't wait for the sharing to end.

Peevish
agitable
skittish
sensitive
impulsive
­overzealous
neurotic
anxious
touchy
explosive!­

Some blood, there will be
our skin, in these, left behind
diaries held true.

Eating strange things at odd moments
Peeing all hours of the night
Being mean to the ones you love
Hands on your lower back
And walking luck a duck
Painting blue, yellow, or pink
Memories of nesting
Pregnancy is a many splendored thing.

Tilted heads stare into spaces.
Tilted heads around dinner tables.
Tilted heads walking down city streets.
Tilted heads as they walk on the beach.

Sitting side by side in street cafes.
Searching postings of weekend retreats.
Never bothered by voices expressed.
Self-absorbed and consumed but never suppressed.

Over-share meals, feelings, and pangs,
GPS tells us your when and your where.
Pictures in mirrors, duck lipped eyes wide.
Never a moment too private, declared!

Be well, be good, and please keep in touch.

When recalling those hot still afternoons;
real life among the swarming millions.
Alongside her on the teaming sidewalks;
oh, my heart would beat a little faster.

Oh, stay away with your blanket so warm.  
Wrapped in the comfort of lies you have borne.
Like clouds with weight, convene upon my chest.
In the fog of emotion, it is fierce.
To confess this feeling, true to my core,
Unleashed in admission, dead heart, no fear.
Like waves in a fury, they toss, they pull;  
The wind scatters much, not this does it touch.
The steadfast burden, comfort of despair;
Depression is gray to those unprepared.
To free this blanket of anguish and woe;  
The ear of another to hear your hurt,
Shiver your shiver, acknowledge your quake,
This blanket of depression will soon yield.

Pushes and pulls.
Isolates and attaches.
Separates and unites.

A drug problem it is not.
A substance issue never cured.
A relationship that destructs.

A heart problem.
A relationship problem.
A self-esteem problem.  

Heal the heart.
Repair the wound.
Build your self-esteem.

I followed a star to a place that I once knew,
from where I stood it reminded me of you.
I heard the ocean, it hummed a different tune.
I saw the sun, it shines down on you.
What ever happened to the friends that I once knew?
This is the place, of that much I know is true.

We are born, time allotted
as desired it is drawn
our time is dissipating.

This balance of time
we cannot know
its use, for our pleasure.

In youth, without care
Adolescents, impulsively
into adulthood flowing freely.

We show distain
for time, is on our side
ignorant of its fading.

One day it appears
awareness, realization
as with youth, time is fading.

This account of time
without much warning
will draw to its term one day.

Remember each morning
make the best of your balance
time is dear, time is fleeting.

Roads taken are not always perfectly laid out.
Some do not have markers.
Intersections do not indicate the direction with most promise.
When we are faced with obstacles
Smooth out the imperfections.
The hard work comes from solely our own determination.
Understand when we should cut and turn back
When to press on.
We may stumble, we may fall.
A little bit of perseverance
and faith to reach some destinations.
I have found that, once reached,
the journey was worth its sweat.
Earned by grit, guts, and purposefulness.
Satisfaction of will.

The crowd pushes and pulls
Motioning forward without effort
Life has a way of happening
Without intention

Tan slacks
Brown shoes
Matching belt
Lost in the landscape
Within the throng of humans

I am one of the many others
I am one of the obscure
That is me there
Yes, there I am

Home is warm, not always feeling
That love known to so many
Children take for granted

A winter coat thick with it
A campfire burning bright with it
A known embrace held tight with it

The warmth known like birthday candles
Burning then extinguished suddenly
The eighteenth year, coldly, shown the door.

My Boliviana does give me pause.
With her beauty I shake then shrink
with her tempest storms unleashed.
Passion is heartfelt.
I love her so.

We count hours slowly
Hot humid air hangs leaden
The days thick and course
Persistent, overbearing
So eternally August

Who said the grass was greener on the other side?
The one alone on the ***** soaked sidewalk?
The bearded man walking two paces behind
His wife while glancing my way?
The woman with the frown, the hard face
Eye rolling as the lovers smile into each other’s eyes?


The fast food nation dying inside out
The tilted heads, phone glowing, never noticing
The world around, the clouds, the sky.
The nation of talking heads stuck in the portals
The aimless many searching for nothing in particular.

The grass is greenest when freshly sprouting
Tender shoots reaching for the sky in hardy soil
Grass matures into a strong and vibrant pasture
Wild flowers and butterflies bouncing off sunlight
Its season comes and goes light and dark.

Pity so few stay long enough to enjoy its seasons
To see its growth to the fullest potential
Inflated expectations lead to disappointment.
Egocentric self-indulgence rolls along
Jumping one flower to the next.

Love is not feeling gratification
A heightened sense of intense emotion
Love is not lust, lust is not Love.
Love is not experienced in a moment.
Love lies in-between the moments.
Experienced in a lifetime.

That grass? No, it is not greener.
It will turn just as the grass you stand in
The faster you walk through it
The less you will understand its beauty and wonder
Between the moments.

We can conceal a broken heart,
demoralized faith,
shattered will,
a crushed spirit.

Pierced skin screams pain.
A plaster cast demonstrates healing.

But listen closely.
Some pains whisper softly.

I understood I would never marry,
buy a house, have kids,
mow the lawn on Saturday,
wash cars, clean the pool.

I had an atypical plan,
thinking back, for my life:
a wanderer, adventurer or pilgrim
without want of firm roots.

Each destination a chance happening,
an introduction to the unexamined.
Sidewalks, cafes, alleyways, and life
being lived, journaled for remembrance.

The North Country, New York;
Watertown, Carthage, Clayton and Ogdensburg,
strolling their streets dripping
history and memoirs never told.

Lassoing thoughts from wild conversation
with caffeinated coffee shop poets,
struggling with Calvinistic thought streams
and priests in moments of doubt.

My theories in marble.
Gently chiseled with each interaction,
chipped, thoughts evolve
leaving inference among spilt beans.

All memories and dreams mingle.
l hold them gently.
As midnight creeps I’m untethered,
drifting from the shoal once more.


Suddenly I sense wonder:
The Appalachian Trail at Katahdin,
Continental divide at Loveland Pass,
Mount Hood from Pacific Crest.

Have you ever witnessed
views of Mojave’s Kelso Dunes?
Felt the Great Basin’s rainshadow chill,
or contemplated Joshua Trees in prayer?

Often the life of could have been
is more lucid than I am,
kneeling gnarled,
pulling obstinate weeds.

Shallow breath’d and gazing… scanning
my cut grass, clear pool,
a loving wife, adoring children,
my home…

This man,
mind wandering,
acquiesces,
to clarity of thought.

I would have… could have
been that man, that other life,
a Walter Mitty dreaming
a life; mine.

Baseball holds memories
of many things.
Its fields of diamond
smell of grass green.
White lines border,
holding childhood dreams.
Old men nostalgic
a child’s eyes wide.
Recalling young legs
once strong and lean.
Memories stirring,
the batter steps in.
Just one hit needed
bringing fans to their feet.
The catcher’s stance tense,
the pitcher throws heat.
Arms extend, bat glides  
It is a sweet swing.
Swiftly he strides
his eyes lift as he leaves.
The ball rises quickly;
a hush fills the stands.
The ball leaves the park,
their heads in their hands.

The crowd breaths
as misery sets in,

Yet, one man is left smiling,
his team gets the win.

In your silence
rare and few
moments soft
very pure

In your repose
thought and reflection
delicate time
finely detailed

Fed by your stillness
brief and precious
I am full
I am whole

Mommy, Mother, Mom:
Over years these words expressed,
Memoirs of my love.

Lace on her dress displays just so
Smile with eyes that pierce
Lips that pout
Curves that pulse fiercely
Dreams of boys rarely become real.

Here was one such being
In the moment of wanting
Delicate limbs with an amorous calling

He nervously approached her anxious
Then suddenly turns as words dissipate

This being of wonder recoils at his stance
Looking him foot to face
The eyes of two and souls meet
At this moment he can only feel heart beat

As her tongue curls to back of lip
She evokes to him greeting as only she could
Suddenly cooled, his body deflates
As she speaks with vile and venom

As so the boy learns
As many before
Facades seldom curtain ones beastly interior

Some things happen, some things don't.
If you never try, they probably won't.
Hide in your shell, your barn, or your comfy armchair.
Thirty years later, we'll find you there.
Though one foot forward and next foot next,
me thinks you'll go far, but that's hard to project.
(Guaranteed 98 and 3/4%)

Stony ground plantings,
surrounded by weeds.
They grow fast and wild,
don't they.
But bear little fruit.

As the sun rises
and gathers heat
they wither quickly. Yes,
Choked out by the weeds.
They thirst,
but cannot be quenched.

They are quick to sprout
with excitement,
but have such shallow roots.
Ah, and as the winds pick up
and the storms rise
they fell first and fast.
Oh, do they ever
tumble quickly.

Having no firm ground
on which to stand.
Such a pity really.
So much promise lost.

Twisted words impale so, absolute.  
They make noise
increasing pressure.
The space between
continues and drifts
over time.  

It’s hard to know where this path began.

Pebbles in shoes seem so, inconsequential.
We hardly care,
they are removed.

So it begins.  
The pebbles journey,
tossed away
with little meaning,
but in itself  
carries the dew,
that feds the seed
of discontent.

The space between,
over time
without attention.
These little words
fed by pride.
Divide.

Darling

Bright eyes that call

Like stars in summer skies

They laugh, and smile, drawing me near

My bride

My padded cell could use a little color.

Still is the morning air
Heavy with silent moisture
Invisible state of being
Suffering no admiration.

Its muggy circumstance
No friend of the tender
Stifling energy willfully
Eagerly depressing and listless

What curse could be
We pray relief directly
Son of Astraeus and Eos
Gentlest of winds

Yet, Boreas appears coldly,
He comes bitter always
Accompanied stubbornly,
His biting demeanor chills.

Footprints in frost frozen
in place they are still
with uneasy eagerness they sit
waiting to dance again.

Come now if you will,
If ****** allows,
Come early if you please
Bring Flora alongside.

With flowers in her hair
soft and wondrous essence
carried in your arms
you’re gentlest of breezes

As I sit in this humid misery
in months you will take flight
I pray your willingness
in late summer dreams.

Nothing new within a word.
Though power is within their numbers.
There will be blood.

Used often lightly,
A different demeanor,
we nourish esteem in others.

Politically too they express,
thoughts that may lean:
Happy days are here again.

They, ever so gently,
pull strings tenderly.
Love is in your eyes.

Words by themselves
are but words of themselves.
It you is to place them in context.

Who are you?
What are you saying?
Please tell me,
I don't mind waiting.

Your so cute, so sweet, so kind
Just thought I'd tell you,
I hope you don't mind.

You have got  me under your spell
There is nothing I can do
No one I can tell

I don't want you to know,
how I really feel.
I don't want to loose,
the friend I have in you.

Little ******* a swing.
She loves to sing.
Silly songs that rhyme.
Never sitting but standing.
Never the same are the songs she sings,
Not twice the words alike.
Back and forth, up and down,
The song and the swing glide softly.
The melody made, as people pass her way,
Remove pains, grief, and anger.
Yes, The ******* a swing
And the songs that she sings,
Recall of delight and mischief,
The joy of her song bring memories along
Of childhood long forgotten.

Last evening, like every other evening
I clutched my coffee and ventured familiar roads home.
April’s setting sun pierced the windshield.

Each night, that blinding light appeared
At dusk on this road heading west.
So I did not notice the little bird,

But I did hear the thump.
A plume of blue-gray feathers scattered
Verifying the sad ending my windshield had caused.

As I contemplated this poor bird’s passing
I turned the corner onto my street of canopied trees,
And noted Tom had left out his trash cans again.

Directly across the street, Mrs. Sally,
Dressed in her familiar Muu Muu, dragged a tree branch
That had fallen in the afternoon storm.

Her dearest Joe used to do these things,
His honey-do list sits eternally near his coffee ***
Wistfully, yearning for the touch of his callused fingers.

I often thought of my end, last breath and adieu.
I prefer to pass unknowingly, sleeping.
A warm thought, for me, but not my wife.

Imagine her jabbing me, attempting to wake me,
Her former husband, now lifeless beside her.
How impolite of me, a weekday morning, no less.

She would probably be late to work
Due to my boorish finish
The morning of her big presentation.

No such conclusion would befall me.
I should go suddenly, in my study,
Surrounded by piles of unread books.

Sitting with a cup of coffee warming my hands.
I took mine black and I was often reminded,
When spilt, Coffee leaves a terrible stain.

I arrived home and noticed the leaves,
Seasons were changing,
They needed a good raking.

My wife met me at the door,
Smiled in her embrace,
There was diner with small talk.

As I retired to my study,
Savoring my coffee, staring at my books,
Contemplating what should be read next,

I did not feel the cup slipping from my hand,
Nor hear its crash as it splintered into a million pieces.
My “World’s Best Dad” cup was finished.

Laid out on the floor, I could see
The spatter of coffee across the rug.
Now I’ll admit, coffee does leave a good hard stain.

I glanced at my wife entering the room in a panic
And felt life drain my body,
I could only think to say,

“I know, the coffee… you’ve told me a thousand times.”

I am not here with you today, so sorry.
I have gone away, as they say,
greener pastures,
yet it’s memories I leave you.

It is easy for me now, don't worry.
It is you that feels and grieves,
lamenting,
for this I wish for you some comfort.

As you ponder my passing, please recall,
you have but one chance at living.
Be courageous.
If you could, I would be pleased.

My life was full and happy, you see.
None better could I dream.
Bitter and sweet melodies,
yes, life is full of both.

One last bit before I go, take heart.
You gather the harvest you plant each day.
Plant well, with forethought,
as effort not wishes, will make it so.

Hello, Pen.
                      Hello, Paper.
Pen, where have you been?
                      Here, waiting for thoughts to come.
Thoughts Pen? There are many.
                      *Yes, this is true. Yet, without guidance, I am through.