Wednesday, November 7, 2012

Rust and Umber

I can always write about leaves,
fallow and fawn,
rust and umber,
their sound, amplified it seems,
under my feet,
reaching my ears
with percussive sounds
like cymbals crashing and hissing.
The wind winds through
adding a texture to the sounds
just as I pass a playground
in full orchestra,
children's voices carried
and twirled about,
twined together
as one instrument
by the occasional staccato shriek.
I tap out a beat on my thigh
as I let my ear buds dangle,
and my feet shuffle
through the next pile of leaves.
I can always write about leaves.

Tuesday, November 6, 2012

I knew I should have taken that left turn at Albuquerque

Delicate lines of frost
have appeared on the sunroom window.
Absorbing the early morning sun
they put me in mind of a map,
hubs and spokes,
urban areas connected
via single lines which run through
vast expanses of prairie,
touching countless lives
while I sip hot coffee,
then exhale,
forever changing the map.

Saturday, November 3, 2012

It Could be any Window

The cheerful scarecrow
in my front yard
startles me
as I look out of the window.
This out of place figure,
resplendent in fall colors,
pulls my breath
from my body
and causes my vision to swim
as I imagine
the terrors which
(please, no)
await my daughter.
I turn from the window
and pick her up,
protecting her,
while I still can.

Friday, November 2, 2012

This Dance, Again

Brittle November leaves
cross over the face of the full moon
as they swirl
and dance
and giggle,
giving the illusion of great motion
but finally coming to rest
inches from where they began
for their next chance
to dance.

My new collection Three Stories and a Cloud of Fluff is ready for you at Amazon.

Thursday, November 1, 2012

A Matched Set

She carries mischief
around in a bag,
like so much pixie dust
she can pull out
and throw in the air,
catching the sunlight,
making her eyes sparkle
(green then blue).
She smiles, knowing that,
while daddy pretends to be
beyond mischief,
a small tug can pull him back
from beyond,
creating magic
under mommy’s rolling eyes.

Wednesday, October 31, 2012

And now, something no one has been waiting for . . .

Announcing the release of my new collection, "Three Stories and a Cloud of Fluff," now available in ebook form on Amazon.

This collection combines three short stories written much earlier in my life (late teens, early twenties) with poems written within the pas two years or so. I found it interesting to discover that I've been writing about the same topics, albeit in different form, for my entire writing life.

I shouldn't be surprised but . . .

Anyway, take a look and let me know what you think.

Tuesday, October 16, 2012

Some Always Remains

It's a kind of magic
that these warm Autumn winds
blow in memories,
hidden on the backs
of the leaves which
swirl around my feet.
I find my childhood home,
preserved in miniature,
near the stem of a brilliant
maple leaf
and I sit, mouth agape,
until the wind circles around
and carries off
most of what it carried in.

Monday, October 15, 2012

Sometimes Open Eyes

Versicolor leaves
layer themselves
over still green grass
as sun splashed highlights
fall across these remaining droplets
of rain.
This street-side beauty
finds my breath
catching in my chest
as I marvel that this world
is so close to my own
yet days seem so far apart.

*In response to

Tuesday, October 9, 2012


Who has seen {
     the sudden rise
   and  w
      s   ir
of what had been
  of drying leaves
in a small cacophony of sound.
the wind?

*In response to Carry on Tuesday

Wednesday, October 3, 2012


Sudden sunlight
startles eyes
prepared for gray.
Refocusing reveals
a well lit
gray day
and the stirrings
of light

Wednesday, August 15, 2012

The taste is of Raspberry Sour Cream Pastries

Not looking where I'm going,
I step on a patch of frozen time
and slip,
falling into a memory,
hitting my head
on the sidewalk in Kalamazoo,
which must look like I remember
as memory cannot allow
for change.
I stand
and enter a world,
foreign to this version of myself
and wonder,
as always,
how has time
done this.

Thursday, August 2, 2012

It Must be the Shoes

She stands,
beauty in purple shoes,
floating on her island of green,
unaware of the light
slanting in from outside her world,
cascading over her face,
casting sharp shadows,
parsing her world into boxes,
one of which
tries to hold her smile
but fails.

In response to We Write Poems

Wednesday, June 20, 2012

The Expected Fog

Clear skies
befuddle my brain
as it expected to see fog,
wet and gray,
where morning sun
burns through
just enough
to create watercolor filters,
toning down the harsh edges,
bleeding one color into the next,
creating a leniency of shape,
Rather than struggle
with harsh light
on brilliant blue skies
I invite the fog inside
where it is welcomed.

Wednesday, May 16, 2012

First Dirt

I imagine
the first dirt
you play in as a child
enters your bloodstream
through your fingers
and toes,
creating a bond
that cannot be erased,
though it can be changed
as layers of sediment
through travels,
this first dirt
into a layer of bedrock
on which
you stand.

Friday, May 11, 2012

The trouble is, you run into people

Architectural flourishes
seem to bloom in the spring
as heliotropic humans
raise their eyes to the Sun
and notice
what has been there for generations.
Ornate corbels
supporting cornices atop buildings
where cantilevered windows
open like petals
under the Spring sun.
Pilastered walls
supporting porticos
to nowhere
names at the top
chiseled in relief
evoke memories
of a time
to remember.

Wednesday, May 9, 2012

Over Apathy Falls in a Barrel

Disguised as rain,
apathy keeps falling from the sky,
striking the leaves
on the tree of good hope,
making them tremble
before hitting the earth
and dampening the ground
wasted oppurtunity.

Monday, May 7, 2012


"Baseball stories resemble wartime tales.
Some are told as they actually happened.
Others are told as we think they did.
Regardless of the specifics, all of them are true."
-- Dan Ewald

It used to be
that 7 year-olds
could slip out of the house,
just after dawn
leaving behind tells
(milk spilled on the table)
(dirty bowl in the sink)
for still sleeping parents,
who would know
(baseball bat missing)
    (glove too)
that their son
was doing nothing
other than spending
a glorious summer day
as it was meant to be spent --
under the sun
on a makeshift ball field
with all of the time
in the world.

Thursday, April 26, 2012

This Suburban Gardener

The water in the birdbath
yellow finches
resting on the branches
of a river birch.
Suburban wild rabbits
(the kind you fear in the night)
shear off dandelion shoots
and pull them into their mouths
with startling efficiency.
Already, they’ve eaten the lilies,
before they had chances to bloom.
This suburban gardener
rises, bloodied,
but armed with only garlic,
we will do battle.

Wednesday, April 18, 2012

Sugar Cream Pie

People die
as we drink our coffee
and eat a mid-afternoon pie.
His cousin
used to work with my aunt
and this thin line
is enough to make
words catch in my throat
their world
has been blown apart
and I marvel
that I cannot
hear the screams
we drink our coffee
and eat a mid-afternoon pie.

Tuesday, April 17, 2012

Mining the Oort

Artists conception of brown dwarf from Wikipedia

Sending probes
deep into the Oort

balls of rock and ice
for poetic ideas
I run into
the good sister of Nemesis
and the juxtaposition
of physical science
and Greek gods
damages my probe
beyond repair,
any poetic worlds

Friday, April 13, 2012

If it weren't for bad luck

Bad luck brought me here,
following this crooked line
from Misery
and Michigan
to this day,
when the Sun angles in
and reflects off of
blue sky drawings
of kittens and pups
and rainbows
and raindrops
and smiling suns.
This turned over glass,
this spilled life
found me here
where I no longer
think of luck
or worry
of its

Thursday, April 12, 2012

Something so Strong

There is no magic
in the way it's always been,
just ruts
formed in muddy pathways
which hardened over time
harder than it needs to be.
The memory
that this rut
did not always exist
but needed to be created
eludes us
as it runs,
the same way it has always run.
So hang
a counter-clockwise clock
as a small reminder
it does not always
need to be that way.

Wednesday, April 11, 2012


As Spring settles
into her beauty
her song begins
to change --
Allegro to Andante.
She walks
with the gray
and long
slow breezes,
kisses you
with chills
in the morning
but loves you
with cool,
cloudless nights.
for you.

Monday, April 2, 2012

The Expected Visit

Spring arrived this morning,
never mind the date.
Crisp air under gray clouds
just enough
to let sunlight play
its dancing games.
Shadows grow
off budding trees
patchwork patterns play
on puddles
where floating
petals spin
then stop,
their tips pointing
like stops on a compass.
Not North
but April.

Friday, February 17, 2012

What Old Photographs Think

These vibrant times
to graying photographs,
soiled with age,
reeking of dampness,
stained by misplaced glasses
and creased with thoughtlessness,
for you
to color them in
with imagination.

Wednesday, February 1, 2012

Highly Unfocused Habit

I follow the light
as it peeks through
the cracks
creating patterns
on walls
and floors
and crayon drawn girls
who smile
no matter the weather.
It reflects
off framed photographs
double exposed
Letting my eyes unfocus
I create worlds,
beautiful and warm,
until harsh sounds
bring me back
to this day
for now.

Sunday, January 22, 2012

The Cinnamon Room

We painted the wall
in cinnamon

to accent the warmth
of our home.
Then added coffee 
colored carpet,
for comfort
no matter the season.
Orange cheddar cheese soup
gurgles on the stove top
sending scents
of beauty throughout.
White snows
cascade down
forcing us from our sloth.
Warm bellies
wrapped in warm clothes
we play until cheeks
glow rose.
Then return to the cinnamon room
for cocoa
and blankets
and popped corn
then closed eyes
and bedtime
and dreams.

Tuesday, January 17, 2012

Time has passed

-- from P. Wanken's "Alone"

I long
for blinding sun
off of white snows.
A sweet agony
to the eyes
soon to be followed
by muffled steps
and heavy breaths
frosting before my eyes
in cold air.
Time has passed
but still
falls rain.