Moonbeams linger on the ledge,
The music’s sweet, the fire is warm,
Christmas is done.

The house is restored to order
though the tree is a little worse
for wear, 

Here and there
a bit of tinsel hangs haphazardly
from somewhere it doesn’t belong.

Soon  New Year’s Eve
will usher in
a new beginning. 

Fleet footed Father Time
allows us
these moments of bliss.

The Girl Made of Clay

For too many years, her life was a room,
no windows to see through, just a door
that was barred, and the flowers were dreams
and the fields were all barren ’til she learned
that the key was hidden within.

Then she opened the door, but no sunlight
was there, just one great big circle
back to where she had been, She learned
that the flowers could not grow without sun,
That brief taste of freedom was only a game.

She sat in the corner, the key cast aside,
Slow silver tears fell from her eyes,
and her heart would have shattered
from sorrow and pain, but for the door
that she locked tight again.


Whether the lines be long
or short
             and no matter if they measure
          give me good words
          straight from the heart
        that I a clearer vision see

A picture better shared unskewed
wears lines that discipline concludes,
Even geese understand the vee
moves them aerodynamically,
but do not dismiss the pigeons
that swirl at will, filling the sky randomly,
line them up at risk of losing their identity,
There are a million shades of green.

   L   o   n   g
or short
                 measured metrically or not
show me the dish that I might taste it
differently. If the flavor doesn’t suit
I can always spit it out.

December 18, 2011

for BZ, and VKZ

In the quiet of a day
 that waits its dawn,
the rock faced mountains
dream of flying…
Doesn’t everything?

The smell of pine and snow,
a hint of cherry in smoke curling
from the chimney,
ice crystal air
nipping at the skin

through all the layers
of hand knit sweaters
(or feathers)
Every moonbeam
an invisible line;

every wisp of wind beckons.
Wrapped in the silence
        of snowflakes falling
I search for stars
and dream of flying.


Unfinished fragments hardly merit titles,
“Artifacts and Artifice” might fit,
but who needs it?

A day spent musing through the viscera
of existence could be better spent,
Even dozing and dreaming makes more sense.

After an hour of reading
‘how to and when’
my muse has died,

If not dead, then barely breathing
and definitely hiding,
Silt settles over my notebook.

I found this poem
in a pile of soggy leaves,
seems Sycamores never finish the story.

First Draft

Picture this —
God creates heaven and earth,
the water and the light,
the vegetation and so forth.
Did He have a prior plan,
a blueprint that says this fits
and this won’t? Did he pluck
the petals from the first rose
and check them for perfection?

I  thought of Him today.
I do that a lot, but more so today
for I have questions.
I won’t trouble you with them
because I’m guessing
you have questions too.
Still, I wish I knew
His policy on revision
and how He feels about critique.

Potholes and Interstices

Old photographs spread out around me
splicing jigsaw yesterdays, interlocking
pieces that fit, forcing those that don’t,
often failing.

It’s like trying to play a sonata on a kazoo.
No doubt it could be done, but it would take
a special talent.  So many unknowns
when we start out alone

to conquer the world. Independence Avenue
is no easy throughway. It’s like driving
in New Jersey, and that is no place to get lost.
I speak from experience. It’s a jungle out there.