As I sat on my front porch, I snapped the photo shared below. Later in the day, I read the following.

There are three basic rules that the imagists followed:

  1. Direct treatment of the “thing”, whether subjective or objective.
  2. To use absolutely no word that does not contribute to the presentation.
  3. As regarding rhythm: to compose in sequence of the musical phrase, not in sequence of the metronome.

Then, I challenged myself to write a poem. Success?


The pink blooms rose,
as clouds,
a complication
of green stems.


Upon thinking of my nephew…

Image result for old pipe still life


You there,
teetering on the brink
of greatness and infamy,

I’m here
swaddled in the shade
of a tired oak,
wishing for a pipe

stuffed with a weed
that tastes of wildflowers and fire,
smiling because the squirrel above me,
leaping from limb to bough

as if it meant to fly,
reminds me of you.


My son’s favorite bird is the bird the American Goldfinch. We spied a few on a recent hike. Said bird and said hike gave rise to the following poem. Take your time with this one.

Image result for gold feather


They never drip
from a genie’s lamp
nor will a clover
with the required leaves
produce the proper magic

to herald the dreams
that drift atop a cloud’s
sunny side; however,
wishes can be secured
beneath the shadows

that sleep under feathers fallen
from finches or warblers
if the feather falls from a flapping wing
just as dawn reaches,
as a kind hand, across a meadow

choked with wildflowers,
but mind you, the shadow
must be carefully peeled
from the earth and draped
over a flower’s bloom

so that the bird that lost the feather
that cast that shadow
might snatch the shade
from the flower’s crown
and stuff it in the dark of its nest.

Then, and only then,
might you wish a wish
that will surely sprout into truth.


Few Joys Greater

I don’t know if the following is a poem or a personal philosophy. Nonetheless, it now belongs to you.

Image may contain: cat, plant and outdoor

Few Joys Greater

There are few joys greater
than the warmth
of a cat napping
on your lap
as your coffee’s heat
rises through
the daffodils
harbored in their vase
on the table
near an old book,
smudged and frayed –
its pages you have yet
to feel.