Image result for old rocking chair photo black and white“A great book should leave you with many experiences, and slightly exhausted at the end. You live several lives while reading.”

― William Styron

“Books are a uniquely portable magic.”

― Stephen King

“You can never get a cup of tea large enough or a book long enough to suit me.””

― C.S. Lewis



I find it on rocking chairs,
one that creaks,
announces its age,
as screen doors often do,
the doors on farm houses

or the bones of grey men
who sink into slumber
and soft cushions,
the bones that ache
when grandchildren

need to play or hot soup
calls them to rise, perhaps,
one last time.
The easy back and forth
of a rocking chair

besides a small table
where a slender candle
offers the room what light it can,
enough to sway and read
forgotten stories etched

in books heavy with pages
that require a reader’s gentle hands,
palms warmed by the pulsing heat
of a dragon’s heart
each time a page is smoothed,

a dragon that creeps
between dark trees and cold stones,
planted and placed between a book’s covers
by poets who once rocked in old chairs,
abandoning their lives to wonder.

Inspired, in part, by a WordPress Daily Prompt.

Acorns, Feathers, and Moss

When I was a child, I enjoyed collecting things: stamps, coins, baseball cards, etc. Each collection became a treasure horde of sorts. Here’s a silly piece about collections and treasure.

Image result for feathers

Acorns, Feathers, and Moss

As squirrels gather acorns
and sparrows thin twigs,
goblins fashion necklaces
from the teeth that tumble

from their gums
as they scrape and munch
the moss that sprouts
on cold stones.

Trolls pluck feathers
off a black bird’s wings,
the raven, the crow,
to soften the stones

beneath their bridges,
inviting slumber to whisper
its secrets, its songs,
until hunger rumbles

their bellies and night
invites them to hunt,
to slide through shadows
where dragons linger

to snatch the skulls
of hungry trolls
that too long abandoned
their sleep.


via Daily Prompt: Panoply

As Dragons Sleep: On Turning 48

Today is my birthday. I’m 48-years-old (or young). If I were to pen a short poem on turning 48, on approaching 50, on aging, and grey hair, and tired bones, I might write…

Image result for sparrow

As Dragons Sleep

(on turning 48)

The sparrow
failed to imagine
the danger it graced,
perched upon

the dragon’s snout
warming its wet feathers
in the serpent’s breath,
and the dragon failed

to appreciate,
slunk in sleep,
a small feather,
laced with the zip and dart

of countless, tiny adventures,
left after it stirred,
startling the bird to flight –
but I grasp it all.


In this piece, I hoped to illustrate life, its trials and joys.

Image result for winter farm



A mouse scurries
between the legs
of a cow, dumb, still,

black, like sleep,
squats near the barn,
adjusts the corn kernel

pinched in its mouth
and squeezes
through a hole

in the red wall,
into air laced
with life and shadow,

to harvest the warmth
woven between straws
of hay piled beside

the strong horse,
its muzzle dunked
in an dented bucket

hungry for yesterday
when the bucket
was heavy with oats.

In this Silence

Image result for adventToday marks the first day of Advent. “Advent is a season observed in many Western Christian churches as a time of expectant waiting and preparation for the celebration of the Nativity of Jesus at Christmas. The term is a version of the Latin word meaning “coming”.

While Christmas has always been a magical time for me, holy, innocent, hopeful, and warm, I rarely concerned myself with Advent. This year, I will. I will anticipate my king, my savior, my friend. I will also anticipate the wonder, the magic, and the love that occurs between this moment and Christmas.

I’m excited!!


In this Silence

The candle’s flame,
a man, still, in the dark:
a breath of cold
and he shivers .