Sketch 3

Posted: November 7, 2014 in Uncategorized

November 2nd
North Wind whistled down Canyon Road,
hands in pockets,
eyes elsewhere,
a jaunty traveler, just passing through–

behind him,
cottonwood cried, naked in the cold;
deer stumbled
for the protection of sparse pine,
children reached for mothers’ hands

Sketch 2

Posted: November 7, 2014 in Uncategorized

Was a man I knew
soul of a poet. His face
bright and quick, with
eyes ready to weep for a great cause.

he fell prey, suffered
soul-death, at the hands
of two conspirators:
time and poverty,
both grinning rakishly as they
knocked on his front door,
dressed in funeral clothes.

Sketch 1

Posted: November 7, 2014 in Uncategorized

Mirrors in Hell do not lie-
the damned must look at themselves with
doleful, understanding eyes,
must see themselves for what they have become:
wispy passions bound together,
sheathed in a thin layer of will–

they mourn for what they’ve lost,
hands outstretched like weeping clouds


Posted: November 7, 2014 in Uncategorized

Short                                                                                                                                                                                                       hours                                                                                                                                                                                       click long claws

down portrait-laden halls

snap-shot memories shift and move in candlelight:                                                                                                                                                           here is a photo of the woman I knew I must marry;                                                                                                                         here, a dripping sunset I knew I must memorize;                                                                                                                           here, a portrait of my grandfather the last time I saw him alive                                                                        November

time slouches forward, claws clicking,                                                                                                                                                     a luminous animal guided by its own light

down this corridor, around the corner to the right,

into a doorway through which I dare not go

Temporary Diamonds

Posted: November 7, 2014 in Uncategorized

can you speak of what
you believe with recycled words as
though words were water
flushed down urinals,
agitated in mechanics’ greasy rinse cycles,
spewed at high pressure into slimy New York streets,
mixed unmercifully into compost scunge and
sprayed across the lawn;
evaporated, rarified into purest form,
ascended, Christ-like, imbued with all our sin,
taken to Heaven,
purified to rain like
to ennoble brown October grass,
dressing each mundane blade in raiment
fit for a king,
encrusting the common, the ugly, the unspeakable
in temporary diamonds and fleeting jewels–
can words, like glistening frost in October morning sunlight,
hold the molten iron of what you believe?

let me remind you
how we labored side by side
our sleeves rolled to the elbows;
our forearms white swords in the
afternoon sun

in case you have forgotten
those halcyon days we held our breath
against lethean ether,
clutched our faith to our breastbones
and stumbled righteously into fresh darknesses–

let me remind you as
you stand like Abraham, quenching
daggerwords in the blind fire of
your faith, poised to
sever heartstrings between us–

we were warriors once:
grim-faced, hard-eyed,
battle-angered, yes, but
stitched together, spine to spine with
pure, white strands of love–

let my words paint you back into
that clearing on a battlefield where
we, our wills, our words, our
onenesses were
one nation in-
a bright circular meadow
among ruins


Posted: November 3, 2013 in Uncategorized

He sings across a great distance,
when mist rises along deep canyon floors,
when the world is monchromatic blue–
sings to her,
sings to you, as though he
were speaking into telephone lines
falling in graceful arcs down
pine-crowded mountainsides,
His voice blue smoke
on still water–

all of night closes in,
presses closer, its darkness
squeezing his voice into a
corona of sound