Monday, December 3, 2012

Triplets on the mantle.

Three candles
red, brown, and green.
with blackened ash coated
In front of the painting with the cracked
glass front.
You shattered Prince Edward Island
when you were a baby
your parents say.
Now they sit, dejected, on the mantle
like a losing politician.
burned out during a power outage.
And now sit on the white brick
and dark.

Tuesday, November 6, 2012

November Morning

The sky is pale on this cold November morning,
Jack Frost has visited overnight and the grass is fringed with white.

I walk past the neighbor’s car, which has been hidden under a white tarp
like a blanket or a birthday present.

Few cars drive on the road at 7:15 in the morning.

I can see my breath and pretend to be smoking a pipe
sending clouds of water vapor into the brittle air.

And I am astonished and captivated by a single brown leaf,
hanging precariously from a single thin maple branch.

I know that the only leaf left hanging will soon plummet to join its peers
and join the brown heaps on the side of the road.

The deciduous angiosperm skeletons whose hard wood is bent
at random joints and angles stand and I see them shivering along with me.

Its amazing how time flies
as the birds fly south.

I wonder what the leaf feels like as it watches the cars go by
on the quiet road.

Soon it snow will come
and the brown heaps will disappear.

And the cycle will repeat as if time was reversed
and the leaves will grow again, green and beautiful and strong.

And the leaves will return to the same trees
that they left so long ago.

Tuesday, October 30, 2012

Sandy Pantoum

Rain falls drizzling
from the drab sky.
Pitter Patter.
Like slow moving oil.

From the drab sky.
Delicate lady finger clouds
Like slow moving oil.
Float through the sky.

Delicate lady finger clouds
wispy and whipped; frothy
float through the sky.
Like thoughts or dreams

Wispy and whipped; frothy.
Trees sway and puddles form.
Like thoughts or dreams.
The calm before the storm.

Like thoughts or dreams.
Rain falls drizzling.
Like slow moving oil.
Pitter patter

Waiting for the storm to hit. Good luck to you all


Monday, October 15, 2012


He has his toys organized all in a row
wrenches, and hammers, and pliers.
Criss-cross apple sauce.
He has lenses over his eyes,
almost invisible
in the light of his office.
On the pelt of a
plum shag carpet.
Asking questions
that don’t make sense.
Taming the roaring lions
that prowl the wild
savanna of your

Friday, September 28, 2012

New Design

Blog has a new design! Do you like it??


Such delicate things.
Lost in the wind and moaning breeze.
Wing in a sling.
Fighting for the courage it needs.
A monarch.
A king.
Brilliant and colorful.
King of the skies.
Lost in the night.
Going south as the chill approaches.
Patterns on wings, and antennae.
Too thin to touch.

Monday, September 10, 2012

Some alternate Haiku

The vines rowboat leaves
Swayed by the winds shifting wake
Struck by spring’s sea spray.
Sailing to clear places
And toward the horizon.

Lighthouse guides the lost
Far from lurking rocks and stone
Shying from harms way
Lighting the true path
For one to take.

He saw no petals
Falling from trees or flowers
With slow wind, but his
Feet brush the pink
Confetti from the cherry tree.

Scaling to the top
Shading eyes to see the land
Grabbing onto branch
As to stay up
And see as long as possible.

These haiku forms are called Tanka, they are just haiku with two added lines at the end

Monday, August 27, 2012


Pantoums are a fairly unknown form of poetry. It is one of my favorites. Learn more about them

Here is a pantoum I wrote about the beach:

Waves are crashing, snatching, latching
on a sandy beach lapping at our ankles
so many vacations,
And tourists with cameras around their neck.

On a sandy beach lapping at our ankles
single mothers escape work
and tourists with cameras around their necks.
Lifeguards sit bored, making 30 dollars a day.

Single mothers escaping work
keeping a nervous eye on their splashing children
lifeguards sit bored, making 30 dollars a day.
They wear sunglasses and slowly scan the water.

Keeping a nervous eye on their children
and watching surfers who glaze the waves
they wear sunglasses and slowly scan the water
unafraid of anything from the sea.

And watching surfers who glaze the water
boat captains smoke and weigh the days catch
unafraid of anything from the sea
mooring their boats onto rickety sea docks.

Keeping a nervous eye on their splashing children
waves are crashing, snatching, lashing
lifeguards sit bored making 30 dollars a day.
so many vacations.

Saturday, August 4, 2012


We sit watching the birds fly from branches in trees
and gargoyles spit out the rain.
Magazines are ripped apart
and used as lining in nests.
Photographs and all.
And we will only stop when the wind starts to sing lonely love songs.

Friday, June 29, 2012

The Lament of the Swan Feeder

He is there everyday.
At the edge of the ever lapping hungry waters.
Out of his mouth comes a gurgle of words.
Venir ici mon cher,” he says.
The old ladies cringe away from him.
From his beard and mustache
As soft and tender as an eyelash.
He never notices everything
Living selectively
Around trouble.
His eyes milky white
And his shirt patched.
He wears no belt, it would bind him he thinks.
That is not allowed.
Lined hands covered in rips and tears.
His veteran gears need oiling.
Inside he screams and wails
He forces everything down deep inside
To where it pounds at his soul like John Henry’s hammer.
Crudely ripping bread
And tossing it into the swan’s water and onto the grass
Which is his bead.
In his palace of a grassy hill.
Tears have grooved deep canyons into his
Rough cheeks and bread crumbs cover his pant legs.
Sourdough and cornbread
From the trash.
He measures the days with wind and sky.
He never calls he has no one at all.
He is nobody’s son, an orphan.
He waits eternally for the sky to fall.
He wears an amulet around his neck which sways before he steps.
Shoes which have walked miles.
An antique, vintage man.
He talks to the swans as he feeds them,
“Maybe one day I’ll leave, where would you be then,”
He asks them teasingly.
Even putting on his shoes is like a journey beyond the sun
So sometimes he doesn’t put them on at all.
He wraps a scarf around his neck every day at noon.
One day
Someone will understand him.
He is a dweller.
Not a lodger
Nor a liver
Or a fleer.
He has never gotten a valentine.
He doesn’t speak of the future or the past.
Only partially visible he winces behind his lips.
Etherized, numbed.
His world is angled with frayed edges and jagged curves.
We shall go to see him
One day, you and I.
And hear the songs of the man, the swans and the trees and grass.
Until the leave’s swaying
Lowers our heads into
Beds of moss and clover.
When bells toll and pigeons fly
Joining the swans.
In murky
Scribbled alleyways.
Swans as white as snow
Out of place with this mysterious man.
In his mind there are books of philosophy and religion
There are houses full of beautiful paintings.
And empty bookshelves.
We shall go to see
The man and his swans
Until the sun sets
And all the lights go out.

 Note- The 4th line translates from French as "Come here my dear"

Friday, June 1, 2012


Escape by flight.
Looking at his father below with pride.
“Look Papa, I’m next to the sun”
Not noticing the hot globs of wax that fall
from the soft speckled goose feathers.
Each droplet melting in the hot Greek sun.
His father, “Come down child, lest you fall and die.”
The son smiles and shakes his head
and flaps his wings, just a bit closer.
Icarus pinned against the brilliant azure sky
like a giant bird.
6 foot wingspan.
Below him rolling hills and vineyards
beside him fluffy clouds.
His father below is engulfed in thoughts of machines
and his other contraptions.
Icarus with the heavens in sight.
A single feather falls.
As if plucked by a giant hand.
Zeus perhaps.
And then more and more.
Until he has nothing left.
Reaching with one hand.
Grasping at the air.
A grimace on his face.
As he remembers what his father told him so many times.
That what goes up, must come down.

Sorry I haven't posted in so long. I've been very busy. Please comment and enjoy.

More poems soon.

Monday, May 14, 2012

Star of Track and Field

Star of Track and Field

His dirty sneakers slam into puddles, slush and sun baked pavement.
5 miles a day.
1,825 miles a year.
Every morning, every evening.
through rain, sleet, snow and hail, he runs.
His apparel varies with the weather.
He is a star of track and field.
hurdling every obstacle with ease.
Long and lanky.
A fine specimen his coach says.
The coach:
a man with a round belly and a yellow visor.
he could never keep up with his students.
as his students run, the coach jogs around the track.
Yelling, "Faster" "Harder"
An ever ticking stopwatch clutched in his hand
as his shrill sounding whistle bounces
up and down on his chest.

Thursday, April 26, 2012

Poem in Memory of Trayvon Martin

This is a poem I wrote in memory of Trayvon Martin who was shot in killed in Stanford, Florida for no logical reason. 

Do I look suspicious?
Walking in the dark.
Hood up.

There was no justice that night
Just prejudice.
To judge by anything
You do not know.

Nothing much.
Just a soul, a heart.

Life can be thrown away.
Just like that fateful night.
In Stanford Florida .

Rest in Peace Trayvon.

Tuesday, April 17, 2012

The Color Blind Bull

He doesn’t see everything in the world.

Only part of it,

It is simpler for him.

Fewer shades

Of color.

He sees the world through

Lewis Hine’s lens.

Black and White.

His ailment goes unnoticed.

All the crowd wants is a show.

They shout and cheer until their throats are sore.

What do they care anyway?

It should be his palace; He should be comfortable there.

He’s more of a Ferdinand.

Would rather sit lying in the wildflowers,

Then be in the arena.

Where the ground is covered in thick dust.

And there is no peace and quiet.

The matadors don’t understand.

Why he doesn’t respond to the color






And Raspberry.

They’ve tried them all

To no avail.

He doesn’t understand why the crowd

Jeers and boos.

The other bulls do.

The tease him

A simple “Kick me” sign would do

But no

Bloody scratches

Made by horns

Line his side.


It’s always the same

The Matador reluctantly

Drops the red cape

He looks half asleep

The crowd boos.

He is led away.

He has

No Wins

No Losses

Just 54 ties.

It is no life for a colorblind bull.

Tuesday, April 10, 2012


Sorry I've been such a pathetic blogger lately.

Random Story Beginning:


The wind blew remnants of the house across the forest scattering debris among the trees. A long piece of gutter blew and entangled itself in the branches of an elm. The trees were green and vibrant but no birds were perched in their lush branches. The whir and rumble of a car motor broke the silence and soon a Model T slowly came into view. The car drove on a dirt road and its tire crunched over small pebbles that were lodged in the dirt. The windows were tinted and the car looked out of place in the spring foliage. When the black car was parallel with the remains of the house it slowed to a stop. The window slid down and a man with binoculars looked out of it. His pale skin had a green tinge to it and he had bags under his narrowed eyes. Underneath the navy blue binoculars he smiled and rolled up the window. The car drove away leaving tire tracks in the dirt. Silence was all that remained.

Chapter 1

Bells tolled loudly sending a startled flock of pigeons into hasty flight. The dark square was relatively empty except for a few street performers who stood drearily in the thin drizzle. Most of the shops in the square were closed and the cobblestones were lit only by a couple of dim street lamps.