The Answer

Image result for strawberries

The Answer

Perhaps it’s strawberries
or a clutch of beech leaves
battered by a heavy rain.

Or drops of dew
that have trickled deep
into the dark between

a rose’s petals.
Maybe it’s a smudge of ink
on a page where a poem

has tumbled out of an old pen.
It could be a stone,
trapped for an age

beneath a brook’s
cold skin,
a stone that’s forgotten

the songs the wind can sing.
Whatever it is, I’m sure
I’ll know it when I find it.


Yes, I am quite sure this is true. Perhaps it can be bottled?

Image result for dew grass


If you harvest enough dew
from the grass before the sun
pulls it back into the air,
perhaps a swallow or two,
heat it above a flame
waltzing on a tangle of dry hickory,
then, finally, sweeten this tea
with a speck of ginger
and two drops of honey
at least, for a moment,
you’ll divine the foundations
of happiness.


The temperatures here in Northern New Jersey topped 95 degrees this afternoon. I began to ponder the best place to find the best cool. Here’s what I came up with.

Image result for fish sketch images chart


The best cool floats
beneath a lily pad
that harbors a ring of water

never seen by a life,
human or beast,

whose heart beats

above the water,
but rather is nurtured
by eyes that fathom

the vitality of darkness,
the fulfillment of loneliness.


Each Step

I hope I always “step” as described here.

Image result for brontosaurus

Each Step

Each step should be this way.

Steps to fetch the mail,
up a dirt road where stones rise
from the earth as turtles rise
from the water,
smooth shells floating
a top a pond’s murky icing.

Steps into the kitchen,
off the couch from a nap,
to nab the last sugared bun

or a gentle step over
the cat sprawled
on a swatch of sun
splayed beneath the window
near her bowl of treats;

each stride – a toddler’s excited totter
toward a playground,
where a tall slide seems to graze
in the tall grass like a dinosaur
waiting for a new heart
to mount its back and play.

Yesterday’s poem…

….well, it didn’t sit quite right with me. How’s this?

Black Cat

Don’t pursue the black cat
that cowers beneath the rose’s thorns,
creeps under the fence festooned
with itch and ivy,
the black cat, a shadow,
that, as daylight fails,
slips between old stumps
and cold stone
to suckle, again,
its mother night.

Don’t follow.
Luck and fate may untwine;
and the witch’s cauldron boils;
yet, adventure warms the night
and dawn is ever nigh,
so, yes, risk the rose’s prick
and the ivy’s rash and scratch
for night must fill one’s lungs
as well as day’s golden genialities.