March 10, 2020


It’s the last page

The legal pad is over

At a fast pace

Just words have wandered off

I just waited for them to come

I just guess waiting is for the best


It’s the last page

Which will never fill all out

Like a life will fill a face

Just stories scar the drafts of

Fictitious faces with..within these eyes

I just guess telling, sounds like, is for the best


It’s the end page

The yellow pad is over

Seems like magic seems to be the case

Just word poems merely Grace the page

“Only I can keep my hearts claim”

I just guess poetry is unknowingly for the best








F or the following line

F or each verse

F or each poem



Punctuation , (!)  maybe at

Abrupt Stops

For an end to each line , (!)

For each verse . (!)

For each poem






I must discuss

A dark circus is in town

A boy in a spin, and trees swing around

He drops, and the swing stops

New dewfrost falls, he’s lost

In all the bare trees


A heavy disguise

Could be of use here

So cover your eyes, please

Your lover’s indecent

And trying on lies

His heart’s denying hard here

It’s a fact;  Abstract lies


Squeezebox  hymns  seem

To squish by inbetween

Aligned  treebark

Lighted & Loudened by a fullmooncloud

Lions let free/  Dark

Circus tonight and if I might

Mix in that crowd

A heavy disguise could

Be of some use

Bridge’s Out”

March 9, 2015

“Bridge’s out”

A boy in a blue scarf shouted.

But a girl with high boots and a cape

only whispered  “Icy  isn’t  safe”.

Both their lines seemed to lift steamlike,  upwords,

opposing  most all  downfall  white

(On his hair,  in her eye lashes).

White  lit it all,  it meant to mask the night.


Ethereal, yet so real, their faces were so pale.

They are, I thought, not far from fainting.

I strained to scout beyond them,  they stood out

Stark  against wood and trail.

It confused me, admittedly, I might see a  painting.


“Watch yourself”,  their voices, close,

It sounded some  like me  who

confoundedly joined their chorus.

Starting down to the river,

I shake off a shiver under my clothes.

I take a deep icy breath, then take a step nearer chaos.


Well, I think what happens at certain points in my poems is that language takes over, and I follow it. It just sounds right. And I trust the implication of what I’m saying, even though I’m not absolutely sure what it is that I’m saying. I’m just willing to let it be. Because if I were absolutely sure of whatever it was that I said in my poems, if I were sure, and could verify it and check it out and feel, yes, I’ve said what I intended, I don’t think the poem would be smarter than I am. I think the poem would be, finally, a reducible item. It’s this “beyondness,” that depth that you reach in a poem, that keeps you returning to it. And you wonder, The poem seemed so natural at the beginning, how did you get where you ended up? What happened? I mean, I like that, I like it in other people’s poems when it happens. I like to be mystified. Because it’s really that place which is unreachable, or mysterious, at which the poem becomes ours, finally, becomes the possession of the reader. I mean, in the act of figuring it out, of pursuing meaning, the reader is absorbing the poem, even though there’s anabsence in the poem. But he just has to live with that. And eventually, it becomes essential that it exists in the poem, so that something beyond his understanding, or beyond his experience, or something that doesn’t quite match up with his experience, becomes more and more his. He comes into possession of a mystery, you know—which is something that we don’t allow ourselves in our lives.

from interview in Paris Review./


Mark Strand, April 11,1934-November 29,2014


May 27, 2014




An apple, itself ready for it’s  fall,

Let go and rolled towards him.

Set upon his hands

His distresses, in his Rousseau Tableau;

Big leaves, big cats, even lions;

Definitive lines

Staged around his hazy distresses.

Clearly and neat, his free,sweet fruit…

Is his  way for his fall up.




                                                             (from 2009)





April 15, 2014




I should tackle my dark in a full press block/

truth is useless for a metaphor man/

I’d need stronger measures. I’d witness

A stranger changing in front of a mirror,

Trying on odder fitting outfits,

Lines sure and sheer./



So nervously casual unwrapped/enrapt

So near a naked half turn onto eye/ you’re Right/

Before we go lay fastened on grand pianos,

Braying asses/ assuredly elegant,

We Reflect in perfecting  predawn light,


A calm gust must come up.

Only the smallest leaves take swirl

On paths  in moon/


Aligning our timings

We  counted  skies

We  chimed  in







.                                                          (from 2009 & now)


Our Flicker

April 11, 2014


As paralyzed,

I beseech to reach to you

As I had to shade my eyes

I been open and shut to you

(She’s out & out shut out to me)


.As soon as I realized

I became a flame to you

As I had manhandled a candle

Our flicker likes to go to shadows

(we’re far & away too far & away)




April 9, 2014





“The sight of home gave little comfort, save to remind me that it offered a cave in which I could hide from my failures. A drink,a chair by the fire, a pile of miseries yet to be exploited–these were the crude tools I would use to put the events of the day behind me. Then, I would go back to work.”           –from “The Visionist”, Rachel Urquhart




s t  I N K


of all the lies

in the air

that this liar

is truly unaware of

(is  ’truly’  the right word?)

of all the lies

casual and caressing there

the air currents  n

night-blooming jasmine (lie)

Golden ones have come from…

(I’ve told em. All alchemy.)

emboldened lies, all born, I imagine,

from an open pen draining onto pages,


from nothing.





.Shiny gold pen 

As a shade-less light bulb

(it can be a candle)

Best  Klieg-lights this  crèche ,

Best showcases this birthplace.


On my knees

To lure verities,  (surely,  scour our trees)

To cure maladies,

Wrest fallacies from unsound foundations,

Whisper one less lonely

Wise,  recognizable incantation;.

Take this shiny gold pen…!


It’s nearby,  go forth,  go further.

I clear my path,

&   Go over…

&   I’ve  Ivory!

Simba’s  mammoth  cemetery!

(they must go deep)

Precious sunned bones poised on  as symbols

Archetexture   actually

I take a sacred see of symmetry



When poetry’s  god  the old notions

When poetry goes poetry in motion

All of a sudden certain

Privileged glimpses are blurting out


All of a sudden

Uncertain unseen forces

Focus for for instances,

What wording output

(shushshush  on  sources)

It’s a code I can tap






Of Final Nights

April 4, 2014




The taste of the spray,

Back splayed against the lighthouse wall,

Is saltier/ The roar of  final nights

Saddled on sea wall gusts

Is Fiercer/ When strength one requires

To withstand, understand, such threats

Is steadier/ The beacon’s cliff path

Is grounds for  light/ 






                                         (from 2011)