Wait

They will be horribly violent storms
From now on ___ There’s nothing to do

We shouldn’t huddle in fear
Or crumble under the weight of thunder
Dear ones ___ These ancient reflexes
Have outlived their use

Some day the ones remaining
Will be numb and dismiss the racket
Their flinches will abate
To cleanup the flood ___ Wait till morning

May 1, 2018

Picking Raspberries for the dying woman

You know, it is a different thing
To pick and choose
Especially since it’s fall
Or autumn, as some well bred
Tend to say—well, often
The bugs get in there
You might see a hole at the end
So you can’t have them
Just let the bent ones fall
To the ground—unceremoniously.

But the whole ones not
Molded or dimpled from age
Go in the plastic pot for keeping
And I think of her, in these last days,
They say, although who really knows,
But she looks it for all the world
To be giving it up, thinner
Unable to make movements quickly
A lag time in thought and deed
As if, what’s the rush?
The sun pricks off the red

Of the juice within
Each tightly held bunch
I grasp gently and pull
From the thorny bush
Although these fall-kind
Or autumnal variety, clusters
The fruit at the end.
Easier picking in theory
But this is children’s work
If you think about it.
Send the children out to pick

Knowing they’ll eat half
Before they return, but better
Than an adult out there
Gathering amidst the prickly storm.
But young, in this case, would fail
Not have the particular eye
Needed for gathering what is required
Of this important quest for
The absolutely best fruit
For my dying friend.
I know I’ll miss her

Already have for these months
Of her infirmity, sickness never
Leaves the same—or as it was.
Then I wonder if some are too
Pink yet, or others a bit
Too deep now, and a tentative
Hand grasps then leaves,
Pulls and lets drop, all
Those not quite right
For her tender mouth
And fine memories, tastes

Of past glory as she
Passes one more day.

September 25, 2014

Moon poems

IMG_0425

The autumn moon has reminded me …

Full moon rising
As a different lighter blue
Than the slow sky dimming
From the deeps to azure
And I wonder
At its papery essence
Wavering world of another
Time, so far away that space

It looks a dream
Or ghost irregular
Unreliable phantom
That won’t be there
Even for long
As it makes its way aloft
Then seems at home
Against black less soft.

July 11, 2014


Contrails at midnight are prettier,
More delicately laid on the moonlit sky.
Not always visible by reflected ray,
But with luck—a threadlike
Rainbow in the dark.

Februrary 20, 2013


two points define a line
was easy for those
who drew pictures
in the night sky.

rather a leap that three
complete a plane,
but the point, infinitesimally small,
could translate to incredibly faint.

and the moon describes a circle
with an ellipse found within
as it waxes and wanes
its way through the months.

axioms of geometry laid out
for even early man to see
with unaided eyes
in the empty dark.

March 17, 2013


crescent moon
chasing the sun down
in the West
like lovers who
can’t quite get it together.

March 13, 2013