Without Doubt

The summer sky,
by night laced with stars,
by day a larger one. The sun

all spark and flare
and promises of tans
even with the sunscreen.

Last night blew the light
away. Today the wind reigns
over gray skies.

It is July, the sun
will return and when it sets
night will again be laced

with stars. The cycle is constant;
you can count on it,
Have no fear.

All Grown Up

You wore the whimsy of light
in strawberry hair,  in summer tanned
hands,  and eyes as blue as a July sky.
You were a song
that sparkled the wind.

Unfettered, you flew so quickly
we couldn’t keep up. Maybe grownups
invent rules to maintain control. If
that was true, it was not
a conscious thing…

More like self-preservation,  or maybe
just holding on. I don’t remember
when it was you went from sagging socks
to nylons,  or when you quit naming frogs
in the garden

And sneaking them into your room.
But here you are all grown up, frowning
over calculus, balancing equations
that I don’t understand; the strawberry
hair coifed neatly,

The summer tanned hands manacled
by a perfect manicure
and the blue eyes shadowed
by secrets
you will not share.


Aunt Mae, thin as a reed
but not nearly as supple
saved everything…

She saved photos and programs,
old clothes, shoes she’d outgrown
and dentures in a can.

Not one for mincing her words,
she was noted for her sharp tongue
and her rich kitchen,

She baked and roasted, sautéed
and toasted and was well noted
for her generosity.

As I mentioned, she saved everything
but we, her closest kin
were hard pressed to explain

why she kept that antique coffee grinder
with handle missing, coffee beans
still in its drawer,

and one old spare tire on a rusted rim,
worn thin of any tread, and busted
beyond fixing,

but we were sure there was a reason,
so, as a matter of respect
we kept them too,

or maybe, in truth, we keep them
just to cause consternation
for the next generation.

After all, why deprive them
of the pleasure of such a find,
and the glory

of creating their own story
about Aunt Mae, whom none of us really knew
until we packed up her things.

Daydreams of a Drowsy Poet

Austere, the cranial landscape
settled into acceptance. The need
to create something lush to brighten the grayness – that
is what lingers there waiting
for the Muse to fly in from some exotic location.

It begs your exquisite mind
for a place to land and upon your acquiescence
a garden blooms…delphiniums, hollyhocks,
verbena, and suddenly a name,
someone you used to know.

The face hazy, but that day
unfolds before you like a dream.
Maybe it was a dream; delphiniums
don’t do so well in clay. 
You notice the bells have quit ringing

and  then
 you understand
it is not truth,
but the search for truth
that makes a poem.

Going Home to a Quiet Town

Harbor mist circles the Methodist spire
as if seeking salvation,
then slowly drifts downward
lending a sheen to streets
cobbled in continuous mosaic.

Quiet meets the eye, the ear.
Time, passing without a sound,
weaves sentences out of silence.
Sea salt carries them out
with a kiss.

Meekly the paint curls
on white clapboards accepting
their fate. If this is punishment
for living too long, how gracefully
they age.

Hydrangeas soften the impact
of echoes. Memories merge
in the whispering breeze. Lore has it
that if you linger too long in this peace
you become one with the mist.

Bird of Passage

hearts of  glass
etched deep by winter’s icy fingers
……………deny an urge to wander
freight trains
lure with their lonesome song
the whistle whispers,
………………..“Come on, Come on”
March wind joins in
with its own seduction
………………….calling all to follow
it’s hardly spring
months before the wild goose flies
……….yet, autumn is in your eyes