Author Archives


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

Summer Messenger

The air is tacky
against my skin
like fingers
against new paint
an unsettling soup
to fill the
purple belly
of clouds
scraping low
over the western
mountains, destined
for digestion
then an expulsion
of shouts and claps
of thunder


I have a
chimera chained
in the basement.
It refuses to eat
until every living
soul on earth
is free.
I once dreamed
of being an
in Egypt
until I discovered
my disdain for
the heat.
Some things
defy completion,
even on sunny


My older brother would spring
from the dark living room
where we weren’t allowed to sit,
his hands up in the
corny claw shape
we humans make
and unleash a loud growl
to scare me. It always worked,
even when I thought I knew
it was coming, and I would
rain windmill punches down
on his running retreat.
I’m no longer afraid of the dark,
and death has kept
my brother hidden
for well over
10,000 nights now.
I wonder where,
and if he is planning
to spring out and
scare me again
some day.


It is the curse of
artists and poets
to be driven
beyond reason
by some
unseen force, to be
helplessly coerced
into attempting to contain
the very essence of
nature and the gods themselves
in tightly laced straitjackets
of lines and rhymes, to stop time
and twist the formless into
crude word forms.
To think that
my poor language
could contain
the majesty
of what my eyes see,
that they could convey
the power of my dreams,
that the absurdity of
could grasp the
heart of Spring!
It is madness
but I must try.
The relentless
fire inside
me rises
and must be
lest it
consume me.
No, there is
no hope
for poets –
we are not
our own

Flight of Fancy

There was a swing at the park. Long, heavy chains, worn plank seat, a rutted gouge in the earth from a thousand dreams hastily halted by the call to dinner, and wrapped in October I would swing, fearless, the chain rattling and yielding as I willed myself higher and higher and I would have flown away if I could. The youthful sky begged me to come, to join the birds, I know it did. I saw its outstretched arms, the sun smiling encouragement at the apex of every heavenward thrust. But my wings never grew. That swing was as close as I’ve ever been.

Taste of Irony

Never a dull moment, or so some
easily excitable soul opined,
but no shortage of dull people
leading dull lives, dull eyed
under the dull gray skies
of their dullified, tired minds –
casting the veracity of
the first assertion
into doubt.
I’ll watch TV tonight
(like I always do),
and drink some wine
and perhaps the answer
to this mystery will
be revealed to me.

Funny Bone

I am touched by the
outpourings of concern for the
potency of my penis
that propagate in my
but these missives
are positing
a creeping paranoia
over my performance.
The offers are
I am not –
but their
crystal balls
see a safe bet
and they won’t curtail
their advances,
waiting for their
that fateful day
when I awake
limp, and
to get things
cooking again


There’s a finch
with a rusty red chest
carefully clinging
to the spinning,
feeder on
the deck,
an avian
amusement ride
and thrills
for young birds
new in town,
eager to eat
and play around,
shrugging the
last of the cold
from tiny shoulders
in a gleeful
cacophony of
carefree chirping
and when the
sun sets,
they will sleep –
for that is all
they care to know.
I should be so, too,
but no,
I have such
thinking to think!
Much ado
about nothing.

Last Sunday of April

The last
of ruthless winter
buffets the newborn leaves
of our long suffering mother maple.
Two summers ago
she lost a limb
to a villainous
summer wind
and now this.
Callous, bruising slaps
twist and turn her tender green cheeks
of unfurling life, the brutality of the
last vestige of cold as it rushes east,
raging at its forced exile,
without compassion,
lashing out to defile
the warmth of its
seasonal usurper.
To all of this
the robins
bear witness
and still
they sing –
as if it
means nothing.


Too much idle time
attacks the mind
with endless realization
that you will die,
contemplating the how,
when, and why
you try
healthy eating
and exercise,
pumping nutrition
into the
big fat lie
you’re growing,
the one where
you survive
this crazy ride
unlike all the
others who tried.
The wise wrap
themselves tightly
in life,
passionately gliding
through busy days
until death is nothing
more than an
unexpected surprise