Tag: Poetry

Cold Clutch

The cedars are drunk
from too much ice
Swaying heavily like
a hopeless lush striving
courageously to remain
between the
sidewalk’s edges
they both
will begin to weep
releasing their frozen heart’s
burdens to return to the earth

Rough Winter (Hand Lotion Blues)

The backs of my hands
have begun their
unhappy metamorphosis
First a coating of
fine grit sandpaper
that will soon bloom
into two sheets of
coarser grit that will
catch in my sweater sleeves
as my hand passes through and


not at all
this gift
from winter
and all the lotions
are greasy despite
the lines the
feed me

But they know
I need it

All hoping to be the one
that sees my money

How Now Lowbrow Cow

My aunt Janie raised
beef cattle for a living
in West Virginia
I spent a few summers up
there helping out when
I was younger and something
she said stuck in my head –
that a Holstein was the
dumbest cow alive.
Now, try as I might, for
the life of me I can’t
arrive at what kind of
bovine behavior could
clearly brand it as the
“dumb one” among its
cud-chewing kin.
My aunt has passed
so I can’t ask and
it’s troubling my mind
What do they do?
Miss the door and
face-plant into the
side of the barn?
Do they try to climb
on the tractor and
crow at dawn?
Stare directly at the
sun until blind?
Sit down to pee?
It’s a mystery
to me – I find
myself in a
cow conundrum
Drifting through
the great unknown
of dairy cow conduct

Thank You, Jane

Reading Jane Kenyon
is my chosen
defense against
the cold wet
darkness outside
that is insidiously
sliding into
my soul
How easily she writes
of cats rolling on
sunny rugs and
poppies shouting
from far fields
and even on less
pleasant subjects
her words feel like
a healing balm
There is an ease
there, a warmth
in her flow that
becomes a cozy
cocoon – a true
testament to what
great poetry can do

Some Days

Some days scream
for a martini
dirty and wet
as the rain on a
November Monday
Stan Getz and
Bill Evans
dueting on
vinyl while the
drops patter on
the panes

Such a shame

There is no

But there are
worse fates than
escaping with a
glass of wine
And if it
all goes
to my head
I just might
be better
for it

Love Never Dies

He couldn’t give her the moon
Whoever hung it put
it out of reach
The only object
in the night sky
he could give her
it seemed
was the town
water tower
so he climbed it

Pledged his love

on a cloudy night
beneath the
soulless glow
of a flashlight bulb
of Apple Red


And he prayed
she could see
it from her place
up in heaven


My third great uncle
Levi was captured
by the Rebs at the
Battle of McDowell,
a mountainous backwater
of the war with
bullets just as real
and wounds just as gory
and they shipped him to

He’s there still
Part of a national park

Grave number 9762

And my dad was a disabled vet
and I am too

Everywhere you look
The wars are never through

The Sun Also Sets

The sun is setting
and I let him go

Freely I released him

No tearful plea to grant
more day     I understand
He must stay on track
for his scheduled
appearance just back
of that mountain yonder
where farmers and
soldiers and
school bus drivers
in far away places
will lift their heads
from their restless beds
at the first glimpse of his
bright shining face and

above me
the moon will nudge
the slumbering stars
and proclaim
their time
to shine