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

I Could, But . . .

I could construct you
a poem most impressive!
A veritable morass of
thesaurus worthy words
and obscure historical
references that few
would grasp
And it would have to be good
Not being understood would
render it unimpeachable!
But I see no use in
being deliberately


I keep hoping
that all that I have seen
and all that I have done and
all that I have been
would rise up
Conspire to
braid themselves together
into a derecho of intention
and with a headlong rush
stiffen the fickle
of my mind
Rigidly fix it to point
the direction forward
in this second act of my
This wandering
to and fro
back and forth
is taking me nowhere
A pointless place
where I have no desire to be
when the hand of the reaper
eventually finds me
and demands
an accounting

The Snow Is Dying

The snow is dying
I hear its chaste white limbs
exploding against the cedar boughs
See them as they fall shattered
to the ground
No one weeps
The earth will absorb
every trace of its
blood to feed the
waiting blooms
of Spring

Beauty’s Burden (The Peony’s Tale)

Such a burden is beauty sublime!
See how the great weight of it
drives the peony’s face to the
grass for the ants to devour
Thousands crawling along her
perfect alabaster petals
to feast on the sweetest part
of her fleeting youth and when
they are done she soon ages
and dies
Deemed useless

One Hot Summer’s Hour

I would tear through the woods
and they would in turn tear me
I still have coats and jackets
wearing the scars from brambles
and barbed wire
that I kept going
though lost once in the thick
near the Civil War crossing
point of Kelly’s Ford
Arms torn bloody by
interminable thorns
that formed
a harsh green wall
Nothing could be seen
more than four feet
in front of me in
any direction
so I paused


I listened hard
for the river
The Rappahannock
was near and if
I got there it
would lead to

Rivers always do

So I forged toward
the song of the rocks
being played by the water
The briars grasping
Every step impeded
Still I ripped free
until I found that
sweet rushing water

And a fellow fishing

Less than an eighth
of a mile from where
I started
from life to death
to life again in
the span in one
hot summer’s hour

Last Minute Shit Scribble

I committed to writing at least
one poem a day and now I am less
than three hours away from missing
it today so here’s this:

There were several birds in a tree
By my count . . . it was three
And I begged and pleaded for a warble
but with the sun long past they bid me leave
No, this night they would not sing for me

Winter Storm Prep

Old man winter is
a lot like me
warming up before
the heavy lifting
First a few flurries
twisting to the left
then to the right
followed by a few sets
of light snow to get
the humidity flowing
Slap on the 50lb plates
of ice crystals and start
the gun show

So Close

Across seven skies
to where rivers flow
sweet and cold
and love grazes
as a fawn along the
green meadow’s edge
Where red poppies bloom
in unleashed freedom
not twisted into wreathes
to mark a million graves
It’s all there
West of all that men know
As close as your soul


Though their time together is brief
the trees love the fireflies deeply
Cherished as the twinkling stars
come down to earth to play at
their feet and tickle their leaves
and the trees giggle and tell them
fairy tales of magical things
Of fluffy white snow
and long dark nights
of cold