I continue to write a poem a day… it’s a good creative exercise.


The Stream

Words gallop –

all hesitation lost

to radical scribbles

on any substrate

with little garnish.


Afterwards –

reread puzzling phrases

again and again

till aha acclimation…

consciousness revealed to conscious.


Mark Strand said: “Poetry is about slowing down. You sit and you read something, you read it again, and it reveals a little bit more, and things come to light you never could have predicted.”

Morning Light


Dawn splashes into curtain less windows

freely sharing spring ‘s rosy light.

Spirits uplift from months of gray

although the bright light causes eyes to squint.

Winter wasn’t a very bad time this year:

I’m not sure when I realized it…

I’ve grown accustomed to the Pacific Northwest gray.

The excessive rain…

that still hinders my dog walks;

after fifteen years,

I still need better rain gear.

There’s nothing like wet dog smell permeating a closed house,

soggy fur imprints on furniture,

or violently shaken rain residue spattering walls


here it’s spring with bountiful sun,

dry walks with dry dogs,

and sprouting seeds splashed in morning light.




Crystalline tears fall…

moon weeps.

Silver infused droplets

spatter cement and asphalt;

porch light illuminates perfect dots

until increased volume abdicates  them.

Uniqueness is swallowed by porous surfaces.


Do you weep


the sky is filled with loneliness?

The stars can’t relate to plain reflection;

planets have their own concerns.


Do you weep


you’d rather walk the earth?

Could you spend the rest of life out of orbit?

If you want to be anonymous,

that means we are ONE…




My toes remember how to tap

to a lively tune

but this body has forgotten

how to dance.

A little swaying happens

along with humming; mumbled words

loop around the melody.

I don’t regret the lack of outwardly wiggling

body parts laced with flailing limbs,

stomping feet, twisting hips and more.

Throwing a back out by a simple sneeze

is bad enough… caution prevails…

no jerky movements allowed anymore.

In high school, I loved modern dance

and world folk dancing not as desperate

as Rock & Roll played at evening dances.

All that seems like it was in the dark ages

not a mere fifty four years ago.

I’ve aged well…

not as fancy as Brie, I’m more a Cheddar wheel

waxed and sitting on a shelf in a cave to mellow.


Joseph Harding in 1864 as “close and firm in texture, yet mellow in character or quality; it is rich with a tendency to melt in the mouth, the flavor full and fine, approaching to that of a hazelnut”.[

white noise babble


almost nodded off

voices blend harmoniously

dim fluorescent light

simple beige walls

dark patterned rug

too many late nights

I’m a lack-of-sleep depository.






greeting the divine presence

without physical touch

bowing to another soul

clasped hands cover hearts

fingers toward sky

accepting each being houses divineness

spirit to spirit recognition

inspired by fleeting glimpses

of divine consciousness

where we are one