Gazing at furry paws

smacking white cord pulls

mesmerizes her.

Wooden tassels clunk together,
waving to and fro
like a tetherball
on a playground pole

spanked by busy children.


He left his kitten

his curious kitten.

Outside snowflakes

float downward

like the pieces of paper

she shred from his exit note
and like bits of cotton

the kitten pulls from her pillow.


He left his kitten,

his curious kitten.

Her hands clasp together.

She utters no prayer.

Downcast she cannot face her Lord.

Her red streaked eyes,

accented by ash colored cheeks

study playful kitten.

Her thoughts clink together

as she slaps them around her mind.

He left his kitten,

his curious kitten.

He left.

He left her.

Wear shows along each seam.

Stitches obtained through toil

and sewn with needles of obligation

well-intended for those in need.

How could her nimble fingers

stay still and silent

in the face of their distress? 

Toll-taking efforts
cast with love

nonetheless burden her shoulders

and incite pain from long hours

spent to ease the lives

of those she loves. 

Woven too is her hard-earned

impermeable shield-
her hard-learned revelation
that she can dwell free

within her mantle.

Softness surrounds her eyes

accentuating a look of wisdom.

Contentment tempers her voice.

A voice that flows to greet one 


like a mellow brook 


sparkling in the sunrise.

Her words traced to paper

speak of a true heart

that pumps compassion.

Her poetic refrains spill forth

like lava flowing on a rock.

Yet her steps are gentle on the earth

as though each journey is

a walking meditation.

Observing is an obsession

that ignites each draft she writes.

What if she changed? What if

she lived with the boldness

of her writing and the zest of her poems,

would her words become tempered

and her rhymes fall hollow on the page?

Snap, crack, snap -- twigs break underneath
Each burst is music fed deep into her heart
Balmy air blows crisp across her cheek
A kiss as sweet as a daughter's caress
Pride inhaled with each labored breath
Seventeen miles of inclines and slopes
Over fallen trees and swollen creeks
Intentional steps, stitches of success sewn into
the blanket of her soul as she
wanders along the path of her
journey to renewal

he talks to rocks
and the sky
he shares fully with flowers
and fields of flax coated blue with open blooms
he laughs with mountain streams
flowing relentlessly toward the sea

nothing does he share with me
words come, hollow words, quiet words
absent of meaning
he appreciates each precious moment
in his world, his breath, his heartbeat, his
movements

each movement is away from me
I feel the absence of his presence

He stands before her
as surveying a Renoir, overwhelmed
by red splashes from her nails, her lips
Entranced by her sparkling blue eyes
and hair swept across her shoulders
its crackle, as wind blown fields of barley
Her words cool him as though
dipped in Box Elder Creek
Her moves have the grace of cirrus skies

He thinks this is a settling place
fit to build a homestead

A coin has two sides:
one, copper bright,
reflecting honey-lit tones,
the other, dark,
hiding under shadow.

A woman, too:
honey-flecked side,
shadows drape her back.

I walk near her, keen to her scent.
Darkness and honey,
mingling bouquet of a woman.

I sit here and wonder
how does my good luck grow
soft and slowly around me?

I don't recall planting
a luck seed in the moist dirt
of a slip *** weathered with age.

My siblings feel battle fallout
from Zeus and Hades
hurling nearby bolts of catastrophe.

Mishap, misadventure, and calamity
do you lurk around the next bend
as I tread on a fair weather journey?

Life is unfair.
Brother and sister meek, what do you
inherit, the earth or misfortune?

I sit here and wonder
how does my good luck grow
soft and slowly around me?

Reflect, reflect, reflect
Trust yourself and trust your client
Accept those you counsel
If you don't know what to say, smile
Finish on time
Don't talk too much
Show your joy
Hide your judgments
Try to work yourself out of a job
Love yourself
Clarify, clarify, clarify
Stomp out erroneous thinking
Keep Kleenex handy

My eyes played tricks,
not moving to the monitor
but pulling toward
that sound of sipping tea

The soft whooshing captured my focus.
Mind following eyes - -
I was on my back
basking in the sun - -
gazing at the clouds

Her emanation was sapphire blue,
emerald green tinged crimson
at the edges -  -
monitor and mind together went
blank. I sat in a trance
until the emotion crept

slowly up my neck then down my back.
She gave me a glance.
She finished her tea
shuffled some paper, left the place

A dancer without music,
the glide out graceful.
Her glimmering aura disappeared
as she faded into the day

with Mary.
I  was seduced
in Barnes & Noble,
lured to the  poetry section
next to coffee and pastries.

I touched her Blue Iris,
fondled  her Red  Bird
and recounted why
she wakes to watch
the early sunrise.

She looked better than I remembered
in a brown jacket
with a striking
emblem of a bear
on the front.

She took me to her tent
near Truro
and told me of turtles, toads,
hermit *****,
and her fear
of ridding her garden
a small harmless snake.

I spill my passion
on the ground — our bed for now — beside her.
Under her cover
she shares phrases,
moles, verbs,
and curves
of sweet new perceptions.

We are intimate beyond belief.
Her verbal kisses
bring sweat to my palms.
I’m high, hallucinating
on Mary
my drug of choice.

I’m having an affair
with Mary Oliver.

As pen rubs against paper
What is the purpose
To illustrate, with words
All that is within

Emotions imprisoned
Have feasted on my flesh
Now released to you as
Impressions on a page

Let me send them
To you, to others

Let us see if anyone
Has the compassion
To take them in
To live with them
As I have
Embattled, alone
At war with these
Unfulfilled passions

Among the many things
I have learned to do
In this life
Is to “nag” myself

I nag myself
To take a walk
Because it is good for me

Exercise you know
Is good for me

I nag myself
To avoid wasting time
And I nag myself to
Take some time for myself

I nag myself about the things
I did not do
Like buy a sweet sports car
Like see that popular foreign movie
Like read the writings of the Dalai Lama
Like love others more
Like love myself more

I nag myself
To stop nagging myself

Poems about women  
Spills of passion  
Flow from anger  
Burst from love  
Gather dust in libraries  
Find homes in back pockets  
Adorn bulletin boards.  

Counting poems  
About women,  for women  
Is endless    
Reams of works  
Billow forth  
From crazed minds of men  
Hourly,  daily, weekly

Small wonder  
This gentle ***  
Incomprehensible,  
Entices, enchants
  
Fill pages with thoughts of her  
Ease all tension, write

Dear indecorous,
Used only from time to time
The word for our day

You are exacting
Better than unbecoming
******, or ill-bred

Ungentlemanly
Incorrect, inappropriate
Unseemly, or indecent

To disguise our sin of greed
We debate philosophies
And justify our economies

Our sins cannot be covered
By shouting explanations

To disguise our sin of greed
We debate philosophies
And justify our economies

Our sins remain uncovered
Despite our explanations

Light surrounds
people, flowers, even
oysters on the half-shell.
Invaded by auras
unnoticed by others
I gather emanations
from fixtures, furniture,
and glances
toward your silhouette.
No object
radiates surrounding rainbows
nor disperses an essence
brighter than what
drops from the ringlets
cascading around your neck
when my insanity peaks.

There is this debate each time
Within my head you see
Will perfection be my goal
Or will wisdom be my guide

There is a crack in everything
A mark, a flaw not all can see
Still there to be detected
By those like you and me

To hone to make faultless
Takes effort few endure

Others fashion some blemish
Intentional ding so slight

Because to strive for pure
Is playing god
Which is a sin for sure

Eastern towhee flits along garden edge
picking here and there
its movements assumed to be  
intentional to casual observers
who imagine a search for food
or a gathering of sprigs for a nest.

Last night was a mystery;
a kiss, then a hug followed by a tirade
seemingly without a purpose.  
Was there intent to hurt,
to inflict an invisible ****
deep inside her chest?

Cowbirds leave their eggs in towhee nests
expecting the towhee to hatch them.
The cowbird knows its purpose.

Unlike the bird, he seems unaware
that consequences ride
on the back of his behaviors
like mites cling to a wing.

He wanted to assert himself
to make clear his desires.
He didn't intend to wound her heart.

Fingers wrap around
cracked plastic steering wheel
of the forty-eight Ford
while curved glass bottles
of *** and coke
perch on the crest
of the dashboard.

I cup her left breast,
explore for
another short-lived feel
as my breath wrestles
with the scent of
lavender beneath her ear.

Tingles and beads of sweat
inter-mingle damp
on my collar.
My lips labor
toward her cheek
methodically
like a grandfather
ascending a steep stairway.

Her nylon-protected thigh
burns against my gabardines
kicking static electricity
off of sagging seat covers.

I fumble with the catch
of her bra against her back.

Parked here to spoon
feels better than
playing amateur baseball.
No audience
watches me
drop the ball
or toil to get
to second base.

What plays most on his mind
is her mulish way and
how her stubborn words roll
off her scarlet tongue --
She's intractable.

When forehead crevasses interrupt her
softness like a fog cast over
the morning meadow,
only love can  
subdue her argument.
She's intractable.  

There is a mountain of
dissent to scale for him
to touch her tenderly.
Her noisy defiance
remains endearing to those
untouched by her resilience.
To others, she's intractable.

Columbine came first
Followed by pink cleome
Pretty invaders

Self-seeding landscape rulers
Growing wild like Queen Annes Lace

Fingers do a resolute tap, tap
on leather sofa arm.
Eyes shift upwards as
she enunciates each word
“I should have screamed
more.”

No longer does she live
like furniture
in a summer home,
hidden and covered
except when needed.

Newborn screams pierce
her coverings
and erupt, signaling
an end to her pretense.

Weary of repairing
other’s battered armor,
she hammers out
her own dents.

In the fog of war
Decisions are made in haste

In the dew of night
Misinformation prevails

In the heat of noon
Soldiers await their orders

In the day’s tumult
Dead bodies drape the landscape

In the daze of war
Mistakes are often concealed

After the war’s fog
May the truth be ascertained

In the dew of peace

There are poems hidden in the limbs of the willow
Lines of rhyme flow from the music of the wren
Sonnets sit like angels atop clouds resting on hillsides
Waiting to instill those with pen and ink to script lyrics to enlighten
Triolets grow among pink, red and yellow petals of coneflowers

Poetry is the breath of our life, the sustenance of the soul
Wars recalled in verse, memories intended to calm, release the pain
Songs of poetry sing messages cascading from the heart
When gods, or monsters, or disease destroy the planet
The last words, lines forming an elegy, will drift from the debris

Hosta’s blossoms fade
Mexican Petunia spread
Cleome endures

Nomadic tribes
Surviving off
Sacred lands

Settlements, touching
Each other daily
Communities

Houses and highways
Fields and byways
Interaction

Learning about one another
Good vibes, bad vibes, no vibes
Loving, ignoring, hating

Cities, nations,
Ethnic tribes
Why?

Why not love
Why not learn to live
Why not learn to live together

Learn empathy, compassion
Learn acceptance
Study self, accept
Study others, love them

Step by step,
I walk mindlessly
across the patchy lawn
muddy here
barren there
unkept, unattended.
Pleading blades of grass
with drops of hope reflect
morning’s sunlight.
They become my teachers
as they reach out
to grow.
Fresh spring spouts
extol me
to find a place
where barefoot soles
gather joy
with each flex of toe
into the ground.

We’re living in two disasters
Impacts are felt each day and night
One leads some to death
And many to fright

Facing fear and grief
Nearly every livelong day
We quarantine, we distance
Wash our hands and pray

Politics is a disaster too
Grid-lock in congress and nothing gets done
Executive branch takes action in sputters and spurts
News cast tell us which party has won

Problem solving seems somehow forgotten
Bi-partisian actions are seldom and few
Who takes responsibility for these messes
It can’t be me so it must be you.

Unless the wren sings
No one will notice rustling
Leaves forming a nest

Morning coffee
spills on the kitchen counter
grains of Christmas Blend
a gift
don’t remember who
was so thoughtful

Never scramble eggs
with a mixture of
eggnog
so sweet

Time for morning
medications
nothings to do
still so much to
remember

Morning pill
respond to e-mail
mid-morning pill
call your mother
forgot
no phones
in paradise

Perhaps
I should
make a list

Where did
I put
my
pencil

Shoes crunch onto the trail
Between the fences
Shortcuts, one of the wonders of life
Like discovering
the taste of a marshmallow

School is ahead
People, large hulking guys
Sweet smelling women
Teachers, mostly nice
Children mainly rousing

Stir fears, challenges
Sensations like one gets
When discovering a compelling
Book at the city library

Hand-in-hand
Meeting the day
Sibling love
Even better than marshmallows

Everything is measured and sized
Necklaces gaudy and gay,
Rings of different carets
mingle near gold and silver bangles
 
No scale or ruler
marks distances between them
Templates screen words
of spontaneous bluntness
 
Turn the apple
toward the worm's
tip peaking through the skin
Cull the fruit  from the basket
 
Between ardent glances
and shallow breaths-
an awareness of nourishment
beneath peeled skin
 
All realize
one seldom cuts
delicious melon
without spilling some juice

When looking for
a perfect phrase
to describe
communication today

Not just in politics
not just in advertising
nor just in social news
or just in entertainment
consider mendacious propaganda

Mendacious the adjective
With many synonyms
For telling lies

Put together with propaganda
One has a shell bomb
A barn-burner of a phrase
For spreading rumors,
Passing on false information
And trying to influence others

Mendacious propaganda is like
A morning misting settling on the grass
Dew blankets everything
Likewise information
Fake is called real
Real is called fake
Newspapers have
A column to check the fakes
To tell you which print
You might trust

There is a sensual surge
swelling  near the pit of his stomach
signaling his surprise
as through the door
drifts her query
"Would you like a margarita?"

Mid-day madness,
folly or playful fun
the tingle evokes
"Yes, I'll take one."

Eyes gazing  off to the distance
while fingers cup the chilled glass
Quizzical musings
and wonderment fill his thoughts
recalling  how this ensued
How could she still instill and
ignite a twinge within him
reminiscent of
when he first
locked his view on her eyes
and said "I really like you.
I really, really like you."

Sitting here seeing
A parade of thoughts
ideas, worries, and preoccupations
Passing by like vehicles
Streaming along a city interstate
Rolling around inside
And me
Without a map or particular direction
Sunday driving through brooding distractions

Mind watching prompts discontent
Something is missing
Seeking inside the breath
As it flows downward then up and out
A new feeling emerges
A feeling of being engulfed
Surrounded by calm
To carry me to a new place
Mindfully lost in thought
To discover moments
Of the peace that passes
All understanding

Bad luck decorates her branches

flashing on and off
like
 strings of lights
on a holiday tree.

Misfortune glows

as if fueled by noonday sun

under cloudless sky.
Each day she longs

for someone who might notice,

turn some switch
dim the lights
pull a plug
and
 diminish her pain.
No hero lurks nearby
on prancing steed.

Don’t filaments fray

and bulbs fail to ignite

one more time?

I seldom learn about life
When walking fast along a path,
Exercise becomes the goal
Instead of understanding
Who I am, what the world is about
And why I am here

I seldom learn about myself
By reading the morning paper
instead of hearing the good morning song
Of the wren visiting
Among the feeders

I seldom learn about you
By thinking what I will tell you
Instead of hearing deeply
What you are saying and
What you are feeling while you say it

I seldom become aware
Until I feel my breath
Cascading in and out
Filling my belly and
Leaving my chest

Perhaps life is simple
When we experience it
Moment by moment
Instead of trying
To capture it
And make it ours

Her brow furrows
 hard
as if etched on flint

deepens gradually

as his heels click

in cadence toward the door.

She feels unworthy of his love

but knows he will return.



When love comes like a mist in the night

accept it as a nourishing dew.
Know that mornings may

present a threat of rain
to capture the mist

only to send showers later.



No one earns love,

love comes to be consumed

like grass absorbs

the offering of the morning.

Morning sun
Peaks through
The auburn leaves
Of the red maple
To draw the eye
Away from morning news

Trouble oozes from the page
Words written in anxiety font

Attend to the beauty
Of the leaves
Instead of the letter

What problem
Has your fret solved?

Reject agitation
Select splender
Resting before you
in nature

Bread is gray, molding
No toast and jam this morning
Food for chickadee

I was seduced
in Barnes & Noble,
lured to the  poetry section
next to coffee and pastries

I touched her Blue Iris,
fondled her Red Bird
and recounted why
she wakes to watch
the early sunrise

She looked better than I remembered
in a brown jacket
with a striking
emblem of a bear
on the front
She took me to her tent
near Truro
and told me of turtles, toads,
hermit *****,
and her fear
of ridding her garden
of a small harmless snake

I spill my passion
on the beach’s sand — our bed for now

Under her cover
she shares phrases,
moles, verbs,
and curves
of sweet new perceptions

We are intimate beyond belief
through her verbal kisses
which bring sweat to my palms

I’m high, hallucinating
on Mary
my drug of choice

I’m having an affair
with Mary Oliver

I know I had a dream last night

The dream was the first thing I remembered
when I woke up

I know it was about a child
Perhaps a near baby

I was with a male friend
Though I don’t remember who

I’m sure that I was at a baseball game
Which I left before it finished

And I left the child there
With some people I met
Sitting behind me

I do recall being told by someone
Perhaps my wife

To go back and get the child

Which I was doing when I was awakened
By a noise on the street

I hope the child is okay

You say tomato
I say tomato

Black is white
Up is down

This is an insurrection
By and large
That was a peaceful protest

Masks save lives
Masks promote disease

He died of Covid-19
He died

Promote the common good
My freedom trumps
concern for others

rays creep through
dust covered blinds
amid sounds from below
trip-trapping of heels across
kitchen linoleum
by legs, hearts and minds
unaware that tears
did not dry on my pillow
heedless that covers
hide fears that
the luminous hands
on the dial
will not stop  
warning me that
a voice will call
ringing my name aloud
expecting this body to carry a smile
to morning coffee and darkened toast
for another day this smile will
conceal a bleeding heart
a heart at a loss --  naive
unable to cry the tears
to seek compassion

There's red on Nandina,
berries blazing among
morning's mist

Years ago you were
a sprig, shiny green
hiding below the white spruce

Once,  nearly
pulled along with other
less worthy underbrush

Like the car that braked on
time, like the strike of lightening
that missed the cabin

Survival can show
bright, radiant
veil of flaws

Gone, times of trial
evasions of destruction
hidden behind the glare

Beneath shade from tall poplars stand
markers: rows staggered hand-in-hand.

Rock slabs like soldiers on review
symbolic nameplates capture dew.

Planted deep, mounted in red-clay;
lean to and fro like mimes at play.

Weathered by icy winter frost
and torrid heat near sacred ghost,

echoes resound of beginnings
while dust sifts across the endings.

I was told when six
lighted smokes show up for miles
during a blackout

Toward home, Christmas eve
lighted candles on tree bough
pierce through dark windows

Moonlight can become
bright enough to cast shadows
beneath my movements

Each morning I awake
with a renewed hope
that my walk, my sifting
through the day
will become seamless
like the dreams of my nights
that flow from place to place
without barriers, or hindrances
to empathy, to understanding
Like the water seeps through the soil,
as the breeze blows through the leaves
in my dreams each of us
fully gather thoughts,
feelings and desires of each other
All relationships ensue
unescorted by impediments
My fear is that
few others dream this dream
rather haunted by
nightmares that bleed
into reality, nightmares
of violence, poverty, despair
of pockets of hell
growing around them
on this earth