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I’ll step over the curb,
onto the sidewalk,
into the alley, where beer bottles
stand like totems,
scale the fence
behind the dumpster
and leap onto the blacktop
near a patch of clover
that strives above the city’s shell,
softens the ground
so my strides better
comprehend the heft
of these imaginings:
a satyr, playing his flute,
swaying on a child’s swing,
waiting to guide me home.


My third poem today…overload!

And no, I grieve for nothing, for no one; yet here are these words. They always know something I don’t.

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Is it time to taste the wine
we poured last night,
still and dark
in the crystal,
in the bloom
upon its stem
forgotten in the shadow
of the vase
you once filled with flowers:
the roses, the purple aster,
the baby’s breath
as white as memory
and stars?

On This Occasion

Too preachy?

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On This Occasion

On any occasion really,
air is important, so I invite
the morning to rest in my lungs,

to cool and calm my heart’s rebellions,
itchy and caustic,
the bile I’ve yet to taste.

It’s best to pause, allow time
to walk without us, to slap
a stick against a row of pickets

as we, still and quiet, gravely breathe,
admit that this air, all we share,
is thinning and thinning.

I Read Somewhere

After my poem of yester eve, this morning, I needed to dwell in a place more likely to make me smile.

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I Read Somewhere

for JRR Tolkien

I read somewhere
dragons, covered in scales
as red as the fire that harbors their hearts,
horde gold in deep chasms, in the bellies
of mountains dusted with the snow
each peak scrapes from the sky.
I read that the time slain
to sip a cup of hot tea is well slain,
acorns should be planted
near gardens thick
with tomatoes and cucumbers,
that a troll’s will hardens
when flecked with dawn’s warmth,
and that greed grows as dark as ghosts,
horrid and black; it wields steel,
blades laced with immortality and poison,
but can be shattered by children
who tell riddles and dance,
who promise to do their best.


Poet Claude McKay wrote a poem he titled Heritage. I borrowed the poem’s first line, altered it slightly, and a new poem, my own poem, grew from that seed.

Thanks, Mr. McKay.

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Now the dead past seems vividly alive
these moments that, as a few stones
link a brook’s wooded shores,
span the banks of day and night,

the golden time, the orange sky.
Myth seeps from the earth,
springs of water, softens this soil,
inviting old stories to creep,

steal away from where time
has buried them. Trolls shed their sleep
and bludgeon stones cushioned
with moss as a child bangs a set kitchen pots.

Dragons empty their lungs of heat and rage,
as the air trembles, cracks.
Fairies, with silver wings, waltz
with fireflies, hover near my ears

to whisper reminders. They remember
from whence I came.

Shall We Begin?

This poem was written as I sat with my son while he played Star Wars: Battlefront. The phrase “shall we begin” rattled about in my mind all day. Once I set it to paper, the following poem slipped from me. Generally, poems don’t happen for me that way. I’m not even sure if it’s any good. Laser guns and teddy bears. Sheesh!!

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Shall We Begin?

Perhaps, with apologies,
softly spoken,

as a child
might sing
a new song

to her bear
before sleep kisses
them both goodnight.