When the Tourists Go Home

The blue/gray sea
stretches  in endless expanse.
The tide is heavy with flow
and fury.  Roiled and misty,
it is a restless thing.

Little airplanes
with their billowing banners
have gone home.  No need to tout Coppertone
when there is no sun and no tourists
to see them.  It is November, even the seashells
have buried their heads in the sand.

On the boardwalk, the carousel is still;
the horses are draped in their winter blankets.
They will emerge in May with the music,
tails and manes fluffed with a new brush,
coats sleek.

At the beach, this is the Spirit Season.
Wind and soul and stretches of sand
become one.  Even the gulls
sense the change. Their rudeness is gone.
True to their tuxedos,
they are a picture of harmony.

This deserted shore is the perfect place
for peace treaties.  One must remember
to bring pencil and paper.  The tide is rising;
white capped waves are rolling in. Anything
written in sand will soon be gone.

Empirical Rationalization or…surviving a party next door

but expanding,
our universes collide with a bang.

Kafka said he needed solitude to write..
“Not like a hermit,” he said,

“but like a dead man.”
In the reticent grave
silence must ring in one’s ears.

My neighbors
are having a party.
Expanding decibels offend.

say knowledge
is based on experience.

claim reason
is the basis of knowledge.

The experience of the music
becomes the reason for a cosmic headache.
I understand Eliot’s objective correlation.

I exist in the benefits
of both experience and reason.

There is small comfort
in knowing
that wisdom fosters restraint.

Rumors of Light

Moonbeams spill over the lawn
Hornets are sleeping
Bare limbs in the orchard
Are keeping their promises hidden

An old owl is sharing his wisdom
The creatures of the forest understand
But I am just a mere human
Their secrets elude me

Still, I am soothed
Morning’s light is a whisper
Too distant to comprehend
This night is made for dreaming.


washed to new-slate-gleam
by driving rain,
the air this morning
whistle clean and shining
like a schoolboy’s face.

No moon,
no stars, no breaking sun;
the clock says night is done,
the sky is undecided.
Trees, bare-branched and brave,
crave raindrops
like royalty craves gems.

Each blade of grass,
each limb, wears diadems
of diamonds.
Scents of morning
swathe the day with energy: