My First Poem

Yesterday, I penned and posted a poem titled My Last Poem. Today, I’ll focus on my first poem.

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My First Poem

Like an injured bird,
it blundered across the white page,
ink smirching that purity
as feathers, rumpled and broken,

might litter a stitch of earth
where a bird tried to fly,
its wing as crooked
as a misplaced letter,

J or Z, until, beleaguered,
it finds its rest
folded, between two pages,
one of them torn,

each word forgotten
on a dusty shelf
in the dark of an old book.


My Last Poem

Is this a goodbye?

Image result for pipe and apple still life

My Last Poem

It will be decidedly short.
To linger too long
is certainly unbecoming,
but I’ll bless each word
with subtle hints of pipe tobacco:

apple and rum
graced with a whisper of chocolate.
The ink will sprout wildflowers:
susans and poppies,
daisies and milkweeds.

Each silken petal clustering a meadow
where a lone elm towers,
and there, in its shade,
I’ll sit, waiting for you,
tasting the morning sun,

looking for dragons
masquerading as clouds.

Aluminum Foil

This morning, I saw a poem tumble across the street like a lost sheet of paper. I spent the day rummaging through tall grass trying to find it.

Image result for injured bird

Aluminum Foil

Just a sheet,
an awkward square,
bent and wrinkled,

blown across
the black street,

an injured bird,
unable to lift itself

into the afternoon,
only into the tall grass

beside the road
where it will
rest and die.


A study, of sorts.

Dear Reader

Perhaps I am writing too much, posting too much. As an apology, ironically, I wrote something for you. And I posted it.

Dear Reader

Image result for fish species paintingsThere’s no need to speak.
Simply, wade in these shallows,
let the pond’s mud

ease through your toes,
erupt about your ankles
like billows of smoke;

then, stand quietly
as this chaos settles,
hiding a small portion

of your self.
Soon, the emerald shiners
will consider you,

sparrows will note
your warmth
and you’ll begin

to understand
why I’ve asked you here.


Why fish? I don’t really know; yet, the poem arrived. Good or bad, here it is.

Image result for fish species painting


It hovers in the dark water
near the shore where dragonflies
perch and weave about the tall grass,
near a log gone fat,

soft with age and gloom,
a fallen tree drowned ages ago.
The fish hovers, fins waving as silk ribbons,
in that dark cold, an idea glimpsed

and considered, slipping deeper,
forgotten by dawn.