Friday, April 11, 2014


Riding last evening,
the wind subsided and the
peepers' chorus rose.

Thursday, March 27, 2014


The eyes that see, the hearts that beat--
How will blood answer the mind's command?
The dark and the light are what make us complete.

Every virtue an advance, each sin a retreat,
street voices scrape, compel and demand
the eyes that see, the hearts that beat.

The dictator was once a baby, so sweet--
Evil in us, like cancer, shrinks or expands,
fills with the dark and the light, makes us complete.

The angel is tempered by anger's strong heat.
What will you censor, what should be banned?
The eyes that see, the hearts that beat?

The conscience that guides, the urges that eat--
Stay hungry, search on—how much can you stand?
The dark and the light are what make us complete.

That baffling place, where reason and desire meet--
Will you fling a fist or offer an open hand
to the eyes that see, the hearts that beat,
in the dark and the light which make us complete?

Sunday, March 23, 2014

Damaged Muse

When evening light will reach and fall just so,
and animated shapes emerge from lines,
with the darting brush's quick, sure flow,
and the artist briefly stops the rush of time,
your incandescent waves of falling hair,
a face that's so possessed of dark and light,
a complexion held in stillness fair,
is captured, held complete—not quite.
The broken smile still has the will to charm.
I give this haunted art what it demands.
It holds me, too, for now I'm free from harm.
This oddly frozen hour--cold paper in my hands.
How I have come to learn the artifice in art--
True seeing comes not from eyes, but heart.

Tuesday, March 18, 2014

Slow Spring

In the pre-dusk hush, the
mind slows, studying the 
snow which knows
stillness, and the thaw
and melt, drawn back
into the earth, no sound
in the soft ground, where
there is something 
green or wanting to
be green, while, above,
through cirrus wisps,
more light every day, 
while arctic wind disagrees--
wait, with the patience
of a tree in winter. 

Friday, January 3, 2014


The silver maple was shorter then
and more sun surely reached in
the windows and the old lady
wasn't so old, and maybe
her husband was here too
in this house where I now sit 
and wonder. Words gone up 
like the heated air, through rafters
and out, scattered and diffuse,
sounds of laughter, love, life, loss--
for sure, grown children came
and took stock, discussed, maybe
argued about this or that antique,
the house empty and clean,
bereft, waiting for a new set
of stories that grow sometimes
as slowly as trees but just
as deliberately.

Sunday, December 15, 2013

Dusk at Round Lake

The rain of tires on Route 9
fades to abstraction as
wind stirs water, light
reflects here and not there,
subtle mirrors, pink fragments, and
the cold air's rousing call
on my skin—a turning
from the linear, from the
rush and crawl, to Round Lake,
clouds like calling fingers,
and a rounding moon.

Wednesday, December 11, 2013

Light's Travels

How many lenses have we
passed through, how many
times have we bent in darkness,
felt gravity's capricious hand
alter our course, all the while,
light driving out dark,
one thin strand at a time?