The first apple of the season
and it tasted red.
There was no serpent
in this garden,
at least none that I could see.
After that first crisp crunch,
if an asp had spoken to me
I just don’t know
what I’d perceive.
you have my sympathy.


Nothing is lonely in the mountains,
Blue skies, gray skies, sun or rain,
Nothing is too important
but everything matters.

There is only time for things that matter.
Every minute is sublime
or a disaster. The pace
is the same, only the outcome

changes. We cannot predict
what the mountains will do next, Slow
and subtle the changes come, Birds
arriving or leaving, the trees, the leaves…

Those stone faces are slow to change.
It is possible to lose a season – Time
is easy to forget until a flower blooms
or snow begins to fall.

Getting it Done

In this day of Spring gone cold
leaves rattle on the limbs,
Birds fluff their feathers
and sing a muted tune.
This is April turning May.
Mother Nature seems to be saying,
Stop labeling me!
There are no compartments
to contain me, not even
on calendar pages
.  In a monologue
without fences she blows cold breath.
The meadow waits for June,
Bees wait for flowers,
Cities turn on the neon.
Fake mystics practice levitation
without success
while poets purse their lips,
                 and write the sun.

To an Apple Bough in Bloom

 A sable brush the poet’s pen
sweeping sea to shore
in tones of emerald green
to gray, with sparks of flame
from evening’s fiery sky.

Milton’s eyes could see more blind
than most sighted orbs
sense to admire, and yet
May’s orchards are sweeter still
when apples ripen in July.

The flower is harbinger of fruit
and never is it worse for wear
no matter the odes it has inspired
or the sighs that greet its bloom…
A poet uses without consuming.

It Is Not The Spirit That Abandons

It is not the spirit that abandons,
All things flesh are, by their own nature, weak.
It is useless to torture the psyche
for some remedy. No magic voice or
verse, no false tears, no witch’s evil curse
can cure such eternal malady.

That which was beautiful, now battle scarred
and rent, the tatters flutter in the wind,
It is not the spirit that abandons,
There is some dark power within the beast
that demands its reckoning. Torrential
hammering rains its blows and bruises.

It is not the spirit that abandons.
In the dizziness of lost perception,
when the rocking sea becomes emotion,
there is a brief impulse to throw caution
to the winds, to embrace the heady notion
that the universe exists for man.

 But then some natural phenomenon
etches its harmony over top the storm.
It is not the spirit that abandons.
Life is more than birth and dying,
Every song was written to be sung
with the truest tones the soul can spend.

Repent at Leisure

In the dark forest of nightly dreams
Sleep plies the axe to foolish schemes,
Come the day, when we awake
The brain controls each step we take,
O! rue the time it’s not in gear
That’s when we act in haste, I fear,
And when our deeds so quickly vent
We pray there’s leisure to repent.