Harmonized Second

Perhaps after today’s feast, I’ll get to do this. Again, happy Thanksgiving. God bless.



When time lends its heart to me
and winter’s new chill slinks
through the hills as silence,
I step into the wood where shadows

lie upon shadows and the stern oak
agrees to chaperone my dreams.
There, I stand, still, yet stiller,
until my pulse thunks a harmonized

second to the woven pulse
of earth and air. Quiet and still,
until I am peace
and sparrows pluck hairs from my head

to warm their nests,
gnomes step from the dark
stuffed between rocks,
and a dragon roars from the forest’s deep.

Quickly, it lumbers toward me,
thunder and might.
It needs to know my name.

As I Wrinkle and Ache

A Thanksgiving poem, albeit an untraditional one. Happy Thanksgiving!!

As I Wrinkle and Ache

I’m pleased
I still imagine
the fat goblin

the sticky pines,
snapping branches
with its arms,

pocked, scarred,
in the shadows,
its breath

the morning cold
with heat and stench.
It swings its sword

bellowing, barking,
hoping, I haven’t
how to play.

The Warmth of Ice

Today, as I left my home for work, hours before the sun would rise, it was 27 degrees and my car window’s were frosted with ice.

In the Window

like feathers

on the window’s
cold pane,

as still as death,
yet swirled

into a breathless wind
drifting in the expanse
of glass.

The Depths of Charlie Brown

Just a bit of fun.


White with Golden Hearts

Pondering why
the morning sun,
how it drips
like syrup
from the pink rose petals

that envelope
his mailbox,
and the breeze
that excites
the broad, maple leaves,

into chatter,
failed to quicken
his heart,
Charlie Brown
tossed a stone

into the pond
beyond the brick wall
where he and Linus
often wonder where
sorrow and happiness breathe –

he tossed a stone,
watched the ripples,
concentric circles,
open like daisies,
white with golden hearts…

white with golden hearts.
And Charlie smiled.

The Right Side of the Sofa

A bit of home.


The Right Side of the Sofa

I’ve sat here, time and again,
my coffee lending its heat to the room,
as I’ve, through the window,
considered the weave of pine,
the criss-cross of birch limbs that heave

and bob as the wind fills
the empty space between
their crooked fingers
and the shadows that cling
to their stout trunks

as a shy child clings
to the confidence of a father’s leg.
Soon, sparrows will line
a birch branch, choir members
in brown robes, until a wind

ushers them to a different tree
or the promise of scattered seed
invites them to the ground
where I imagine two squirrels
and a nervous chipmunk

wait for them to dine,
two squirrels and a chipmunk
I can’t see through the window,
sitting near my mug of cold coffee
on the right side of the sofa.


Do remember eating luch in your grammar school cafeteria? Would you dine there again, if you could?


School Cafeteria

The short boy in the Hulk t-shirt
arms his plastic spoon with corn kernels
piled next to a trio of fish sticks,

criss crossed, on a styrofoam plate,
flicks each yellow round at the new girl
in the pink skirt and knee socks.

Some drift too far, over her head,
land near the black shoe scuffs
squeaked on the shiny white floor.

Others bounce off the back of Tiny Linderman,
the fat kid, leaving little splats of moisture
on his olive polo, stretched tightly

across his heft. He’s already scarfed
two hot dogs and a chocolate eclair
and he hasn’t even noticed the new girl,

her soft shyness,
her nervous smile,
her perfect knees.