A rainbow over the river,
It doesn’t need much sun;
oil slicked ripples
are dancing.
This is home.

Home to eagle and crow,
to black bear and deer
and lately the lowly coyote.
There’s plenty of wild
on the roam.

It’s home to cabbages and kings,
to ordinary men, to those
who know hope
when hope could be
a stranger.

Home of dreams, some fading,
some flourishing in cabins and castles,
Imps and angels, both have mountains
to climb in quest of stars. This home…
it’s almost heaven.


Why Do Sparrows Fly?

The sparrow’s flight,  miraculous working
of hollow bone and feathered wing,

untethered by the need
to claim more than a spot to land

and when it lights,
sustenance for day, a nest for night.

Because we dwell in things that are,
it is often difficult to soar,

Sometimes the truth is other than it seems,
Could be the sparrow flies so man might dream.

With Certainty

The vibrant hues that droop
To winter brown, send seed
To sink into the still warm ground,
New roots are set that reach
To next year’s season, sustained
By faith, rather than by reason.

Acorns shed their top hat shells
In celebration of new generations .
Some will grow into mighty trees;
Others fall upon a fallow field,
Destined to decay they fail, by fate
Or maybe it’s for lack of will.

Each season brings its beauty
And its pain, Such foolish waste
To curse the falling rain,
As summer sun now cedes
To harvest moon, December
Will be followed by new bloom.

Heartfelt prayers for all who suffer the havoc
and harm wreaked by Harvey, Irma, Jose,
and all their siblings.


The wide blue sky sees smokestacks
at an unobstructed slant, over the top
and at an angle; those soot covered bricks
in a circle broken by time
and industrial trends.

The whistles and engines complicit
in a conspiracy of rusted silence;
the hulking machines frozen into stillness.
Eventually blowtorches will reduce them
to their lowest common denominator.

The flame will flare brighter with each cut,
until all has fallen and the fire consumes
itself; that man-made monster
no more than memory, and the moon
still smiling above.


I didn’t ask for this,
It came to me in the cradle I think,
this need to write a river.

I was summoned to free you
from your office with no window,
to tug you from the hands of despair,

to open your eyes and clear your septum,
that sights and scents might rise to your brain,
so that you can really know magnolias

and understand that dreams
do overcome concrete and all
the mundane walls of prisons without bars.

On nights that last too long,
reach inside your pockets;
you’ll find myriads of stars.

In their light you will remember
His promises come true;
sunshine follows rain

and in such joy
all the worldly wounds
will mend.