Saturday, April 12, 2014

The stories come out on wet city streets

I imagine
that red brick
absorbs memories
which cause it to darken
with age.
Porous outer layers
stripped of their potash
provide shelter
for the secrets and fears
of the ages
until rain,
kicked up by
those moving too fast
to listen
splashes against the grain
and the brick
sighs out a
long forgotten story.
If only
you will listen.

Wednesday, April 9, 2014


I am seeking shelter from time.
Crayon drawings, pinned to my wall
have cracked the seal
and the yesterdays begin
to bubble through.
I open my umbrella,
trying to deflect the flow
but it quickly pools
around my feet
and I find myself
tumbling through
half-remembered days.
I swim hard, against the current,
searching, it seems for
some unknowable moment
until fatigue sets in
and exhausted and defeated
I tumble back through.
I refresh the mastic
on the back of the drawing
and cover the hole
but carefully leave
a corner upturned
so one day, when I'm stronger,
I can swim again.

Saturday, April 5, 2014

Why I've given up on Focus

Seven year old feet
have not yet learned
to travel in straight
so a simple trip
from a --> b
finds us at a1 (
a beautiful mosaic
made from what others
have thrown away)
and a2 (a family of ducks
swimming down the Delaware run)
to b1 (yes, we passed by b)
(the 1891 cornerstone
on University Hall)
and I wonder how long
have I let these blinders
build up around my eyes
that I've missed all
that is around me.

I blame all of those adults
who kept telling me to focus.

Friday, April 4, 2014

Since the rain is falling

The world is smaller when it rains.
The sky, capped and sealed by gray
closes in, shortening your vision,
blurring your focus, making it seem
as though this rain is all there is.

Yet, it seems each crystal drop of rain
carries secret color.

And I imagine
a small crew of painters, departing
each drop as it lands,
dressed in brilliantly colored overalls
which match the color they will spread.

Thousands of painters ply green to the grass
and titanium white to the snowdrops.
Small accents of lavender are dotted
on the emerging hyacinth.

They come in waves,
so small
and moving so fast
that you cannot even see their work
until the Sun returns
and you stand slack jawed
and wide eyed
and wonder
when did Spring arrive.

Tuesday, April 1, 2014


The Earth rolls
and light peeks
over the horizon,
sending a signal
to all creatures of light
that this day
will begin
with showers of amber
and shadows of amethyst
to be slowly replaced
with clear cerulean blues,
the type of sky
under which
like embryonic roots
and humans undergo
their own
once again.

Monday, March 31, 2014

Leave 'em in Stitches

If you look too closely
at life
you begin to see the seams,
the stitches which bind us together,
are not made of a single kind of thread
but are layer
upon layer
of differing threads,
each stitched by a different hand
as we each noticed
what was worth

Monday, March 24, 2014

Periwinkle in our shoes

We mistake this beauty
as a backdrop,
a static scene
against which we play
out our small tales,
believing our foibles
are somehow grander
than grandeur
until some place
shocks the system,
forcing the eyes to open
themselves to the majesty
of an oak
twice our wingspan
which captures our life
in one of its branches.
So we stand,
oak bark against our cheek
and periwinkle in our shoes.