A writer lives two lives
One on earth
And the other on pages

Sometimes you are like a teenager writing a book for the first time

You stare at me for hours not knowing what to say

You type,re-type,back-space and re-type again

Sometimes you leave me for months,forgetting you ever started writing

Then when you look through your archive and see me patiently waiting for you to click on me

You hit delete

Putting your faith in me is like tryingto fly a paper plane.

You know how high you want it to go,
But it always comes down

In the sea we call the world you have two choices

You either float and let yourself be seen for who you are

Or you try to blend in and end up being swallowed whole

The adding of poems to collections?
They often come in nearly
Endless clusters.

Excessive repetition is
Flattering to nothing.

Its not fair to the reader.
It's not fair to the poem.

the only things I remember about
New York City
in the summer
are the fire escapes
and how the people go
out on the fire escapes
in the evening
when the sun is setting
on the other side
of the buildings
and some stretch out
and sleep there
while others sit quietly
where it's cool.

and on many
of the window sills
sit pots of geraniums or
planters filled with red
geraniums
and the half-dressed people
rest there
on the fire escapes
and there are
red geraniums
everywhere.

this is really
something to see rather
than to talk about.

it's like a great colorful
and surprising painting
not hanging anywhere
else.

Within the rain, the silent song
The gentle beat, the soothing thrum,
I close my eyes to drift away
To find some peace, I cannot stay.
Sweetness and soft, through dreams I stray
In soft grey tones, the cloudy day.