Thursday, May 23, 2019

Thank you very much to Editor Bob McCranie of Red River Review for publishing my poem.

Skiers Enrolled In Public Schools
The littles one stand quietly,
gather them,
all the little ones,
herd them up high on the mountain,
sheep and goats,
herd them up to the top,
hurry, hurry because
the race must begin.
Hurry, hurry up the mountain.
They must march with longer strides
than shorter legs can manage.
Breathless they become,
confused, dreading the race,
fear standing in wide eyes,
dripping tears freezing on faces.
Strap them on skis, but bind their arms,
blindfolds put into place,
hurry, hurry the race must begin.
Hand them tickets which they cannot read,
with messages meant for more developed minds.
Face them away from the center
then push them off.
All struggle to stay on skis meant for larger feet.
Most are crushed in the avalanche of expectations,
others hit trees and are stopped cold
and cold they stay, still and cold.
Some refuse to go down at all.
They seat themselves on crossed legs
and speak no more.
Others cross the finish line on shaking legs
and the count should be of concern.
There are too few,
and their victory is hollow.
Blame is laid at the feet of none.
No one claims failure of those strewn across the snowy landscape.
No one cries out against this mockery
nor prays for the fallen.
And those who ran the course
stand with their tickets clutched in their hands,
tickets to nowhere.

Wednesday, May 22, 2019

Thank you to Guy Farmer for publishing "Museum" on his website, Best Poetry: Contemporary Poetry Online.


To the casual eye,
a roomful of old, dusty objects,

scrolls of great words
containing broken promises,

the hardest days of time captured,

man’s progress built one culture at a time.

And while the present stands full
of promise and difficulty,
the past did send forth wings of hope,
some forgotten, some ignored.

And it’s good to embrace
the backstories of so many forgotten nights.

In this sea of iron, stone, wood, and fabric,
it’s amazing to see

how beautifully imperfect we are.

Sunday, May 19, 2019

Thank you to Dave at Winamop for publishing 5 of my poems in the May issue.

Music of the Spheres

When you are passionately musical,
sound can be ecstacy. Life is holy.

Dissonance is a deep, corporeal gash.  

Every piece of sheet music is gem-encrusted, 
a potential or attained nirvana. 

Sour notes are tooth jangling and cacaphonic, 
and cause your pores to seal.

But the soothe of mellifluous melody
penetrates like God straight into your bones.

a line, (a short blue one)

(An Etheree Poem)

on face;
the stand-ins
enter our world,
are revealed as odd.
We know them as changelings,
left by ones of the old world
and recognized by strange facade.
Impersonators that infiltrate.
False kings taking up counterfeit scepters.

a line, (a short blue one)

Drycleaning the Suede Guitar

My heart extolled
discovery by
the eight year old boy 
of the Spanish guitar;
setting his watch by the chants of the world
before coaching endless births
of wooden, acoustic bodies.

My heart joined
at childhood’s end;
his dare of cosmic laws
waiting to be broken.
Walking endless struts with midnight at his back,
to never rule the silence
with hollow, electric bodies.

My heart communed
as he split himself
in two, yet remained
one - double sided tape.
Magnetic, yin and yang, din and whisper,
Magick fingers divining
dancing, sweating human bodies.

My heart mourns
As now through firmament;
his will becomes law,
as what once happened here,
his own unique frequency absorbed within
the invisible strings of
spherical, spinning bodies.

a line, (a short blue one)


Water, clear as mountain air
accepts small stones
thrown by little children
where they sink
and remain atop the ocean’s sandy plain.
Thrown stones, not recoverable.

Words, said in anger,
raging storms unleashed
from mouths raining rancor
where they cut
and scar the heart’s flesh.
Angry words, not recoverable.

Time, as lost history.
Footsteps long faded,
days once walked through
melted away,
now only seen in dreams
Time gone, not recoverable.

Trust stolen by thieves,
hidden as gems,
worthless glory that can’t be shared,
broken faith delivered.
Lost trust, not recoverable.

Opportunity, like an unrecalled plane,
requiring correct time and place,
lacking a second chance.
Only another option,
never matching the promise of the first.
A missed occasion, not recoverable.

a line, (a short blue one)

Radio Waves

The radio blurts the story of war.
It seems to rage in every corner.
I hear the facts of the conflict
over and over again.

I'm thinking I might need to turn off the news
and live in silence, 
because my only other choice
is to go below ground where the bombs and the bangs
cannot touch me, 
and the end will not much matter to me.

Not a concrete shelter with walls that tremble from concussions, 
only sweet earth, 
my mother once more taking me
into her arms 
to demonstrate her profound love for my fragile shell.

Bones do not offend her, 
so my place in this silent land will be secured.

Thank the heavens that radio waves can’t penetrate underground.

Saturday, May 18, 2019

Beatitudes in Review
published in 2018

Blessed are the poor in spirit-

divine honors
after long wandering

Those who mourn-

angels being thus disguised 
as the blue mandolin plays

The meek-

my mother’s sweater
the necklace she gave to me

Those who hunger and thirst-

illusions lost
but wisdom found

The merciful-

a hospitable reception
beneath the awning

The pure in heart-

soft light from the window
make this house clean

The peacemakers-

olly olly oxen free
the slaying of the burnt king 

Those persecuted for righteousness sake-

shatter the mountain
overthrow the giants

Find the Kingdom of Heaven.

A poem,
Looking for a home.

From "Keats is Dead"

Keats is dead?

Surely you jest!

For as he claimed, the poetry of the earth is never dead

I’ve seen him sitting in the library
and taking up a seat at the University

I’ve seen him lounging in bookstores
on shelves I often wonder don't buckle under his weight.

A poem,
Looking for a home.

From "Cutting Pages in a Book"

Our histories set in the first chapters
our futures not yet readable

A poem,
Looking for a home.

From "The Bus in Heaven"

The elegance of cold skin
and the scent of myrrh

ripe among us.