Tuesday, January 21, 2020

Potted Olive Tree

When day brings 
Him into learning,
Grayboy springs
Into action, attacking
One or another fraction
Of all things, uniting
them, wrestling, testing
Himself  in all he sees.
We too might learn from
Wrestling olive trees.

Friday, November 15, 2019

Imagine Autumn

In fantasy, fish swim
Flames of the sun--
Lenses sailing light,
Twist and glide in dreams
That are never done.

Saturday, October 12, 2019


Future is at best a
Dappled thing --time
Dancing, light, leaves--
That retrieves
Starlit sky from
Focus in early
Westbound blur
On an east wall.
Amnestic reel calls,
Spins where Norma is.
A new day begins. 

Tuesday, September 17, 2019

Late Fledgling

She makes no sound
And melts among colors
Of the ground --much
As a memory sinks
Into the heart of me.
Time passes, clouds
Roll, doves instruct 
The human soul.

Wednesday, August 7, 2019

Ductile Time Revisited

Nine years ago, this poem attracted one comment, from my dear friend and grammar coach since 1965, Willie.  I decided it wanted  pictures, something glowy and something definitive. This is glowy:

Melting points
Make crystal relax.
At 98 degrees,a
Human may be
Drawn like a
A wave over years.
Tungsten takes 6000.
Dreams stream off.
Where do they go?
What current causes
Them to glow? 

What indeed?As we get older I used to think that wisdom from experience would inevitably flow forth. Those two questions at the end;Where do they go?;What current causes;Them to glow?
are our elders' existential 21st century "Godot"!
And now for something definitive:

I introduce Monsieur Muscovy, our resident expert on all things ducktile.

Friday, July 26, 2019

Scene From Our Woody End

Mom monitors atop
An upturned canoe.
Kid skids down 
Again and again--
Wild in futurity but
Wants authority
Between them.
The difference
Is clear: a mother's care
Is always near. 

[Click to see Cat's cat]

Thursday, July 11, 2019

Difference Between 9 and 69

Our barns, across the creek
From one another --they light
Cooking fires for their workers.
This time, it looked different:
A luring, dancing devil daring
Me to do something naughty--
Sneak a beer or cigarette, where
I might be found by adults with
Eyes smoldering as if fire
Raged inside them, but now...
I am the adult, an old one too.
I still sneak off behind the barn
But find nothing to do.