Yellow, turquoise, lavender
hues of ancient light
& shapes.
Where does language keep its memory?
Nothing is forgotten
-ever-
in the unwoven fabric of creation.
Apr 14
Apr 14, 2026 at 3:33 PM UTC
If I knock on the door,
no one will answer.
There are limited hours
(nine per week)
& this isn’t one of them.
Someone could drive all these miles
& get lost near the bridge.
"I think they're open Thursdays,"
someone said,
then the snow started
fall
ing
*
**
****
Feb 14
Feb 14, 2026 at 4:41 PM UTC
The stairs down to Dante’s booksale
look ominous. Not taking that plunge.
Not even an elevator could tempt me.
You sit unnoticed in a leather chair
surrounded by novels.
Fiction is deafening.
If you clash a cymbal
or a symbol
the librarians still won’t pay attention
or know your name.
Feb 14
Feb 14, 2026 at 4:33 PM UTC
Song of My Mother
1.
She’s there in the chorus of voices
buzzing from a transistor radio
simultaneously there and uptown
at the Colosseum named for
our
fallen
king.
A sweeping crescendo and her clear-lake alto
rises above all other voices
angelic soloist crackling
through the ether -
if I opened our front door
I might hear her song on the snowy wind
flowing from all those miles away.
It is dark outside
& the air is crisp with the promise of Christmas.
2.
The doffing machine rushed into her ears
like a misdirected river
day in & day out
six days a week
until one day the finger of God
unplugged the circuits
and the room slowed to a murmur.
For an hour the women stood
speculating at their posts until a foreman
shuffled down the row & announced
“there’s a hurricane out there, you can go home
for the day.”
Pushing against relentless wind she
stumbled out into an intersection
just as a steeple crashed to the ground.
Her prayers rested on her lips
linking arms with coworkers
to form a chain against the furious gusts.
3.
She ascends
above treeline
foot by foot
leaning upon her walking stick
while I wait admiring
the azure sky.
any moment she might
burst into a chorus of
Climb Ev’ry Mountain
yet for now, she is catching her breath
and I am grateful for the miracle
of having hiked this far.
Aug 17, 2025
Aug 17, 2025 at 8:05 AM UTC
Snowbanks burst
into radiant light
traffic hushed
as the engine crosses
Route 3.
Focus your camera
or be here now—
the Ram Dass conundrum.
Every moment reflects
every moment, then
wheezes past, to some
unknown destination
beyond the tracks.
Jul 22, 2025
Jul 22, 2025 at 6:17 PM UTC
Big miscalculation -
I left the oxygen tank
at home.
Humans don’t breathe
so well
beneath the masonic moon.
Jul 21, 2025
Jul 21, 2025 at 8:24 AM UTC
My wisdom will not be
found here like so many
lyrics forgotten
from Dylan albums
say what you wish
my favorite is Self Portrait
but only for the instrumentals.
Jul 18, 2025
Jul 18, 2025 at 7:07 PM UTC
Paint flecked
from the ceiling
tinwhitesnowflakes
*
that February
still feels
like it didn’t
exist
my back pages
entire novels
now sparks
free
escaping the chimney
Apr 23, 2025
Apr 23, 2025 at 6:02 PM UTC
Paint flecked
from the ceiling
tinwhitesnowflakes
*
that February
still feels
like it didn’t
exist
my back pages
entire novels
now sparks
free
escaping the chimney
Apr 11, 2025
Apr 11, 2025 at 5:54 PM UTC
These snows of February
are like the cave-making snows
of old; when snow-giants
roamed the Earth
& the only language
we spoke
was Glacial.
Feb 15, 2017
Feb 15, 2017 at 7:21 PM UTC