Snowing here again
Turning into one of those winters
Eyes turn to streetlights near every dawn
Confirming it has not stopped, yet.

February 20,2019


Were I to live
As long as Edith Wharton
Fifteen years remain

And while I imagine
Thirty more, I might be

Yet more than that
Becomes for others
A life as burden

Forgive us this Body
That drinks at troughs
Just like a god.

February 17, 2019

It’s the day
I owe you a poem

There were some words
the other day
wandered off now

Once spoken
they’d stick
like me to you, dear

February 14, 2019

Clearstory windows

Some hundreds-year-old house
Clearstory windows
Covered by a bamboo shade
Akilter, akimbo as they always are
Speak of all the mornings light
Penetrating these glazed wonders
Making a slow slide
The gravity of silica
Waving on the way down
Finding new form
Distorting the light
Penetrating again as always
On angles prescribed by celestial
Trips around, yet again
Turning the angle of the sun
Against the side of this house
Unmoved by the centuries
Built by design or happenstance
To accept this light
Unchanged by the ages
Although the interior gutted
With each renovation
That never moved the windows
Hung to accept
In a particular way
Light that never changes
Provides our connection
To those old residents
Who wandered these halls
Created new families
Buried their dead
Lived in light unknowing
A day would come some future
Some changed time
In so many ways
But not the sun.

january 2019

There isn’t a place I need to be
just someone I’d like to know
like in a dream
the one who gets me.

Up every morning to coffee
nutty with a touch of sweetness
not bitter or imperious
just an understanding ear.

And when the night falls
on earth like a shadow
instead of the void it is
we roll our uncertainties

Into a something beautiful
for what time there is left.

December 21, 2018

Lake Superior

I can still conjure the waves
rolling in like a heartbeat
at times lolling
other times wracking with endless repetition.

Nothing is all one or another
although the tourist trade
can be hard to live with
as a singular only.

There were hints of cold soon descending
the mists of rain gathered at midday
and happy to leave finally
this magical place where I won’t stay.


It occurred to me by the shore
that years ago it was here I learned
I was meant to write.
At first it wasn’t clear what

I started with short prose
dabbled in ideas of novels
finally it focussed on poetry
to convey my inner demons.

That gets old even for the writer
then a mentor showed me the way
to beauty and meaning–nothing confessional nothing just musical

I began to see the poet waiting
there at long last ready
suddenly pushing pen on paper
making a new magic happen finally.

October 29,2018
North Shore