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Writer, author, Navy vet, musician, intermittent mystic, old soul and practicing poet

An Ancient Breath

The wind that lifted the soil
from the face of Kansas in the
thirties is still here
It’s never escaped our
Perhaps near
Perhaps blowing
down your street
is the wind that
touched soldier’s cheeks
at the Somme
That writhed
through the jungles of ‘Nam
Every breeze a living relic
of human history
newly experienced


The air around my head is
fat with sopped up messages
I love yous
and who died
and angry political tirades
about one side or other
Words and thoughts
no longer confined
to race through
copper wires or
be imprinted by
pounding keys on paper
now surround me
The ether suffering
the assault of the
human virus
The very air itself
infected with
mindless invective
and the pressing
emergency to express
what’s on our plates
for lunch today
Wrecking our cars to
expound nothing at all
or what could
have waited days
to say or in truth
no one would ever
had said in the not
that distant past
when a walk to a
phone hanging on the
kitchen wall was
a prerequisite
to call
Now untethered
from our mooring
cords we announce
our every act as
abnormally important
There’s nothing for it
I suppose
We’ve become

Warp Speed

Time speeds up as we age
Even though it feels
that way
it’s easy to explain
Twenty years ago
I was going to live
and now if I’m average
only about twenty remain
Perspective narrows
at the close of day

Evening Run

I let my imagination go
Through a shining meadow
of star-tipped grass it loped
Up the hill that touched the moon
where it swooned and kissed her face
before racing into the forest and
dancing round a mound with the
Sidhe Fae then returning
full circle as usual

begging for a treat


This day merited a
better fate than the
unprophesied way I
waded through it
Hours of slow pacing
staring at the rain thinking
I should go somewhere yet
Proving Inertia

But what of it?

Billions of people had this
day right along with me
Surely two or three
succeeded at

Circulating Mistakes

A million hard learned mistakes
populate my veins
Good dirt I turned to mud
The white blood cells
have given up
“To hell with it, we can’t
beat this strain of stupid”
They’ve gone back to
simpler prey
Cold viruses
Hay fever
but the mistakes?
They stay
I wouldn’t have it
any other way


I can master nothing as the
butterfly I seem to be
Attracted to the sweet
nectar of sound
I alight lovingly on an
instrument’s petals
tasting its bounty but
never staying long
Some other flower’s song
will call me and I’ll follow
My hands covered in pollen from
What’s next?

The Story In A Shoe

They keep showing that one shoe
More a soft insulated boot with
faux fur
some distance behind the
truck that struck her
Her last act before impact
was to push the stroller
out of the way
Another shot of the shoe
I don’t know if she made it
I keep the sound down
during the news


The song I hear
That rhythm so deep
and so dear is
through a broken
prism but the
melody is clear
to those who stand
near enough
Are quiet enough
Who haven’t had enough
of holding
their breath



I haven’t had that
moment yet that
John Wayne moment
by the side of the
trail in Stagecoach
spinning his Winchester
when without a trace of
braggadocio he became
the GOAT
and the world sat up
suddenly rapt
and said “damn!”
So I make do
the best I can