Some Days

Some days are desperate
A cold ache arises between
the shower and the first coffee
A hollow pain that screams the
need to belong
To believe in something
To be a card carrying part
of a larger that defines you
That proclaims
this is my thing!
And some days that
won’t go away

Request (Invocation)

Oh great owl
Ruler of the night
wings outstretched
in silent flight
Hearing and seeing
the tiniest things
invisible things
secret things
Sister of the moon
bathed by her light
Messenger in a
thousand dreams
come and take me
to your forest keep
where I can seal away
this pain


Dispatched some eight minutes
or so ago and told to cross
one-hundred fifty million
comes a benediction
A small piece of the sun
streaming through the
palladium window
spans the family room
and lays hands upon my
sitar in a shining
silent blessing

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and obscure historical
references that few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