An Ordinary Day in June

The jungle outside my window,
(three trees and a blackberry bush
with berries much smaller than my thumbs)
has quenched its thirst with a long drink
on a day of insistent rain, and now
it basks under the glow of a clear sky.

That vision of emerald gowns
and ruby gems moves in unison
as the trees nod and sway
and the berries plump contentedly.
When they think no one is looking
they dare to brush a branch-tip touch.

And I, in pretense of not noticing,
avert my eyes and tip my head
to catch the playful breeze,
to feel it flirting with my hair
as we — the trees, the berries and me —
celebrate the delights of this ordinary day.

How I’ll Cure the World

I will write the demons,
the silent screams and tears,
the groundless, and not so groundless, fears
accumulated like mismatched luggage.

No fancy suit bag here,
just battered baggage
scarred and damaged,

the ugly rumblings of griffins
and goblins, the predators
with twirled mustaches,
vile breathed and detached.

I will write the shadows
that smother the sun,
the smog and the pollution,
the pestilence of intimidation,
the bias of discrimination,

I will write the smack, the crack,
the booze, the pills, the pain,
the insane refrain that does not dwindle.

I will write it all
then crunch it up
into a vulgar ball
and burn it.


run through fire
without fear
of blisters
walk barefoot on gravel
forming calluses
or questioning
the wisdom
bathe in moonlight
without shyness
or shield
expect rejection
for surely
it will come
embrace it
and move on
only then
can one claim
the name

On Choosing the Proper Pen

A pen is not a thing;
it is an instrument,
a purveyor of art,
representative of ancestry,
a promise of posterity.

The brand to use
is just a matter of taste,
a Montblanc might be a waste
for Frost. He would choose a Parker
or a Cross.

would probably schmooze
with a DuPont, while I,
in poverty of inspiration,
see a stick and think stick. I
would settle for a Bic.

A Retreat, Not a Surrender

I thank my lucky stars
for midnight walks,
for mango moons,

and let’s not forget
opposable thumbs
that heal when hurt.

I’m thankful for this tea
that warms me like a poem writ’
with soul and mind in tune.

I’m thankful for moments
of silence that teach me
how to listen.

On this rainy day
when the breeze is warm
and the pines are emerald green,

I’m thankful for most everything,
even the cantankerous poet
who circles in the square

reading his work with a growl.
Gloves on,  gloves off.  Exempt
from apprehension

and the cloak of fear.
That’s the way life is here…
no cabbages or kings,

just poets and their pens
delivering peace and love
and a spattering

of sarcasm on pages oft’ recycled.
A meeting  of minds,  sometimes  heads butt
but please, spare me the paper cuts.