Sea Harmony

At the foot of the azure sea
foaming surf speaks an ancient lore
wrapping all in its mystery.
Some say it is purest alchemy
practiced there by the shore.

With not one speck of fertile ground,
just rocks and brine lapping endless sand,
The sea sings its whispering song.

Surely some magick wrote the score
that swells over beckoning night.
Oblivious to lock or door
silver notes, mingled with salt sea air,
merge with Moon’s golden light.

There in the mist, a wondrous peace;
Sea music has calmed the savage beast.
The dark, defeated, joins in song.

A Lesser Heaven

Here, where the river’s muddy
and the creeks rise annually
claiming more land

only to withdraw
and leave us thirsty
when the flow goes dry

there’s no new way
to view this desolation
except in May

when wildflowers
hold a convention
and spring’s fawns

pretending to be members
crash the breakfast buffet

with white spots
that make them look
like one of the bunch.

The Poet that You Are

 On this journey to the wide expanse
beyond the realm of night
we tarry for a moment in this clime

We pause to write a poem
plant a garden,  and on a warm
spring day we dream

Here a pine tree, there a maple
each nodding in their conversation
with the breeze

Their wisdom far exceeds
our comprehension, their dreams
we can’t conceive

but even in this sluggard mind
of mine, it comes to me this April day
when sun splashes through

the window where I sit,
that in spite of all the stumbles
that we make

we do not doubt the destination.
Short strides and lagging mind
might slow me down

and you, exuberant and wise
It’s hard to say who will be the first
to touch the stars

If I am first I’ll set a table
with your pen and inkpot.
If I’m the one

that’s left behind
I will not mourn your peace,
a moment’s selfish tear

and then a celebration
of the poet that you are
kindred  on this journey that we make.


that’s life

a landscape
with a bottomless lake

shards of moon afloat
mirrored stars
a mist that shields, shades
enhances or distorts

turned toward the sun
relate the season
winter, spring
summer or fall

tug of tides
a gravitational pull
that makes it easy
to believe

 a haven in all weather
they are the seasoning
the gather of together
they are the spice

love and landscape
that’s life

Spring Kites

In Weirton, it is spring, the sun is shining,
A child runs with a kite floating in his wake,
Although it will not launch the child is laughing,
happy with the bright colors and the neat way
it bounces on new grass.

Some kites live a lifetime and never touch the sky,
too fragile to fly in fierce winds, they are grounded
from the day that sticks and paper meet with new paste,
some string and a small child’s hand.

Even grounded kites love April sunshine
and engage in playful flights of fancy
as they bump along the velvet meadow,
teaching children how to dream.

A Mind for Spring

It’s been so long since lucid thought
has found its way from pen to paper.

At first it was the season’s
fault.  Too much gray
and cold, the graveyard
the only thing that’s growing.

Then the thaw came;
Ice cracked with the same
old song.  Mountains stood
implacable as ever.

The sun, as if ashamed,
withdrew.  Grasses greened,
somewhere a flower bloomed
and still no poem.

The ink is old, the paper
yellows but persists
in staring me down.
The neighbor’s lake breaks the moon

into a million gold shards.
I wait…Slowly the wall
fresh’ painted white
begins to seem remarkable.

One doesn’t need a calendar
to know it’s April.