I know
that moment
that instant
just before
the hawk’s talons
grasp the mole
for I have been
Now merged into
perched calmly
atop the gnarled
old oak

Seeing clearly

Silence In The Trees

I observed a moment of silence
Studied it closely as it eased
its way through a copse of
barren birch trees
like a stalking lioness
Its hue an intoxicating
shade of azure blue
It had belonged to someone
I knew by the faint odor of
grief still clinging
I called to it but it
knew it did not belong
with me

Thursday Thinking

What I dreamed so long ago I scant recall
An archaeologist exhuming pyramids
from the sands of Egypt was one
Abandoned somewhere trail side
on the uncertain path to adulthood
and the obligatory rock star fable
held sway for a time
Bass in hand
heading for the promised land
of fame and fortune and writing
songs with McCartney but I wasn’t
set up for that sacrifice
It wasn’t in my blood just
the passing plaything of
a teenage mind
and I ended up


With the rest of those wandering souls
who make no particular choices as to
how to spend a life
Employed for a suitable dowry
A house
Close ties to a
financial institution
with more checks than balances
floating around

Always wondering
if it’s too late
to re-write dreams that were
allowed to escape or to create
new ones to carry you through
to the end
knowing now
what wasn’t known then

that you will not pass this way again

Poetry of Random Things

Purple petunias overflow
a window box high above
the cobblestone
Grandma’s secret
Hungarian Goulash
recipe simmers
in a tiny kitchen
scenting and heating
the grey afternoon
Warming the view
The poetry of
random things

Unwilling Traveler

How fond my memory of
days on the beach!
The bikinis
The laughter
Life before the disaster
The unhinged madness of surf
dragging me to the deep
only then to be drawn skyward
and buffeted about wickedly
Now I’m stuck atop a great
pyramid in the desert
Some place called Egypt
so the camels say
One lonely ass
grain of sand


The Taj Mahal
shows best at dawn
From a distance
With the camera
just so and
the millipede of
human existence
forbidden to go

Held back


Up close
reality is a
weathered canvas
A study in decay


I’ve tried reading Tolstoy’s
towering achievement only to
find I tire too easily
I am decreasing
Becoming smaller
Selling off belongings
I once burned to acquire
Inclining towards brevity
Say it powerfully
Move on
A form of wisdom
or senility

The Muse Speaks

The muse has gathered my bones
in a wicker picnic basket
which she shakes violently
whenever I ask
what I should write
“This! This!”
she yells
as she rattles
my bone basket madly
around her head
“This is what a poem
sounds like!
Are you deaf?
Write it!”