THIS Easter

Left alone with a bedraggled time that has

Had its way and solitude

Center stage in slight

Tremors, worrying the carcass of

An old fear that

Beneath the footprints of

These silhouetted days lay


Goodness under the influence

Life generously giving of

Privilege (for few) and benediction (for many)

A brilliant ignorance

That holds

We are all on that

“darkling plane”

Where good is bad

Bad is good is

Bad is good…

A curious crossroads

To ponder fate while

Loving the scientist and his

Prayerful Algorithms

That Sun Tsu certainty in sequence

Leaving believers on a mobius loop

Of repetition

Governed by gods of division

Long dividing people

But not the praying hands

Of the hopeful

 THIS Easter

I know It Will Be Spring


I know it will be spring

When the geese take up and leave

Yes, they’re beautiful graceful things

Their droppings though my peeve


I resent the season

Migration filling skies

A calendar with reason

Even so tears my eyes


Autumn, but a slant of change

A casual cool correction

Beauty in flight high and strange

Season’s savage intersection

I remember the sun

On its loving summer arc

Children ever on the run

Sleeveless in the park

Grown to love warmth and ease

And even winter’s thaw

I see the cold an ugly tease

Catching me bitter and raw


Every day the feathered armada

Noisily hugs the shore

Summer is persona-non-grata

And I want it all the more




Spring is coming

even to my narrow

little valley

I can tell because the post office

is delivering seed catalogs

and  silence

the local vehicle of discussion

When people think you’ve erred

somehow their lives get larger,

Silent when you enter the room

Still, there’s a sadness

when seeds don’t come to

attention – straight and narrow

on the first or second try outside

Blindly swinging at weather

that isn’t there


No shame in a tear shed

As the seedling is brought back inside

put at the table (yet again) to feast

on the love and attention

it failed to imbibe in its rush

to bloom


Inside provides the walls the structure

that can now tame my seed’s

“pathological enthusiasm” –

the stuffing of too much life in soil

too lightly tilled


My Seedling:


Come inside where it’s warm

Do not regret your seed-time

Just learn – reall

Spring is coming


Seed catalogs

brighten winter’s gloom

Leafing the pages I await


Your authentic unrushed bloom

Promises from my garden
Promises from my garden


sunset text poem

Next week I begin my poetry unit

New students –  new approach

But what?

Only a few will admit

casual hook-ups with the art-form

Will my desire be enough

for those hearts who fail
to see the ‘blues’ in a Stormy Monday?

Do I want them to see me anguished & pounding

words into order

solidifying my life in

confessional meter?

Do I let them in on my secret

crazy spinning tie-dye history?

A history I have yet to mourn

Do I say my poetry

is simply my ‘other’ novel

or desire


Do I want them to hear my

cursing the last tea bag on this

cold March morning and the tiny

hole that allows Earl Grey to escape

into my oversized mug

 Warming my cold hands

this last cup – confirming

a short unit