I sit cross-legged traveling
through the early verse of
William Carlos Williams as
jazz holiday standards play
but this respite
This breathing space
is to be brief
Guests will soon be along
and the room will belong to
loud voices
paper tearing
glasses of cheer
and laughter I don’t
often hear

Foraging For Poetry

I went out the back door
this morning looking
for a poem
Sometimes I’ll find one
lying around
Stuck between the slats
of the deck but
today there was only a
chilly west wind scratching
at the bare sweet gum
trees and a few leaves
dancing across the grass
while the clouds played
I’ll try later

Learning Curve

I recall a day I spent
in the old Port of Marseille
I still feel the magic that
seemed to hover over the place
at a bistro by the water
I didn’t speak any French
so I ordered Steak Tartare
“steak” being the only word
I understood
When it came I wanted to say
“Hey pardner, want to throw a
little heat on this?”
But to avoid embarrassment
I ate half and
rubbed my belly for the waiter
to indicate I was full
and I was

In a way

The Prosecution Rests (Life Awaits A Reply)

I lack the strength of mind or

more genuinely

to become a classical musician
in either Western or Indian music
I have the time
The hours in the day
The years remaining
but a certain laziness
comes with age
A creeping apathy

What a shame it is that so few
grasp their purpose in youth!
Only the gods know why most
arrive so late to the grand
idea for their life

With the passing of years
we become
Unwilling to submit to
and our doubts rise
in equivalence

But I still have time to decide

And the truth is evident

The more we resist and fear
an undertaking
the more clear the point
is being made that this
thing we are avoiding
is what we are meant for
in this life

What will I decide?

What will you?


Bing’s still dreaming of
a white Christmas or so
sings my radio though he
is oblivious to this
He lit out forty-one
years ago to no one
knows where but they
kept his bones
at Holy Cross Cemetery
in Culver City Cali
where the chance of snow
is perpetually
a big fat

There Are Times

There are times when
no amount of crying
will suffice
though the great seas
rise and swell from
the depth and deluge of
our sorrow
the dead will not return
to life
love denied will remain
Wars will continue to absorb
the small broken bodies
of the innocent
but cry we must

and shall

for there are times
when tears are all that
are left to us

Chasing Tale

I catch myself truncating
my verse for birth on
making me a panderer
not a poet
A whore desperate for
clicking suitors knowing
they want it now
and will allow no time
for visiting a link
Do not ask
horny readers
to be patient
in the heat
of chasing
a tasty
word tale

Poor Poets Dream

Oh to write words immortal!
To write verse
so beautiful
so timeless
that it is revered
two-hundred years
from now
To live eternal via
thoughts scribbled
on a Solstice Friday
in 2018
How amazing would
that be?
If it happens, sadly,
I won’t be alive to
see it


I watched a cloud passing by
bearded with billows grey and white
floating above its body
so much higher than the others
On its way to India
I suspect
to confer a blessing
of shade upon the ghats
and obeisance to Shiva
I waved
I hope he remembers