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Behind him a brick wall drips with old colors,

He is facing West 82nd Street.

His lashes droop down, his eyes are closed.

All I can see is the blackness where his face was,


As if his face had been cut out of the brick

And the brick holds his face for me.

I stare, and the shadow stares ahead,


Daring me to remember the color of his eyes

The cut of his hair, his name.

Philip, I say to the picture,

Philip, with blue eyes.


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This forest is so young

My hands can reach around almost each tree,

My arms can tightly embrace even the oldest.

Yet such quiet pervades the forest

That I forget time.


Quiet is itself older than trees and forest,

Yet chooses to live here,

Comforted by the slow growth of maple and pine,

Hiding in the rustle of wind-shaken branches.



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Feather and Skin

The sixty-ninth year is coming upon me

Since first I made to count.

Still the self-same hawk circles over,

Or another in its place,


Skimming clouds overhead, watching

My old bones and eyes.

She disappears a moment into the sun

So that I can remember the first,


When we met, midway between earth and cloud,

And touched,

And recognized one and the other,

In midair feather and skin.


Unwearied still, she ranges beyond my eyes,

Stopping only to spark a dream or

A recognition, or better yet,

A reminder,


In midair between feather and skin



(With thanks to WB Yeats)

Posted in nature poetry, Poetry, Spiritual | Tagged | 1 Comment

Stay tuned….

I’m working on the final draft of my first book. Crowds are waiting for release:


I’m working as fast as I can.

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Cafe haiku

Floor tiles are mismatched

An old man stands bewildered

Which way to go now?



A woman passes

In the cafe filled with diners –

A breeze melts my skin



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Skeleton Skeltonic Verse


skeleton bones

rattle as they roam

‘til they come back home.

the last time i saw one

he, she or it shone in the sun.

he, she or it was having fun

until he, she or it shouted a curse

it was so much worse…

it’s supposed to be a skeltonic verse,

you dummy old bones,

stop all your groans.

go back to your graves in that thick thick thicket

‘til you find a poet who’s not dyslexic


Skeltonic verse consists of short rhyming lines that just sort of flow on from one rhyme to the next for however long one chooses. 



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Grandma’s Ghost

My grandmother wore a white sheet on Halloween.

Her black oxford stout-heeled shoes poked out from under the hem.

She walked with her familiar rock from side to side.

Her pale blue eyes glinted through the eye holes.


She was not carrying sweet candy;

She carried a loaf of rye bread.

The aroma of weak milky tea surrounded her.


When I ran to her to clasp her in my arms,

She was gone.

So I went home,


And every child, “Trick or Treat!”, got a slice of rye toast

And a hot cup full of tea.



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