Tuesday, January 28, 2020

What am I supposed to do

What am I supposed to do
when I wake
to this world
from faded dreams
winter daybreak 
veiled in foggy darkness
thirteen point eight
billion years
of potential 
spark inside 
every cell
that I call
before you
in that chair
facing sunrise 
through the window 
each new day
far off
the fog 
know what to do
as their leaves
for the star
called Sun
to prepare 
break fast
while I brew
two cups of coffee
that seem 
a fitting outcome
a tip of the arrow
of time
my time
our time
yet I wonder
if the quiver 
more arrows.

Friday, January 24, 2020

A Blink of the Eye

It happened so quick
I paused to reflect
to be precise
it seemed 
it was all before 
what was left
was afterward
with but hope
that memories 
would remain 
did the red rose
greet my nose
did the foam 
of the wave
greet my toes
did the finch
to my sighs
while I await
the peach to ripen
the summer sun.

Monday, December 09, 2019

Diving for Truths

Plunging down
into the unknown
I reach and take
again and again
then out of breath
I break the surface
for familiar air
my hands 
still tightly gripped
I wait
my backpack heavy 
colorful shells
abandoned homes
of those 
with stories

Friday, September 06, 2019

The Map

I need that map
to find that place 
I need to go

else postpone 
my will 
to go 

I wake this morning 
lost a dream
yet I find

time marks that spot
on the map
she kept in mind
for me

to find

Wednesday, July 10, 2019

Where are the words?

Where are the words?

When waiting for them
to arrive
I stand beside
empty tracks
awake in the still
day doesn’t break
I can’t remember
holding a just arrived
letter in hand
ballpoint penned words
vague memories
night sky stars
silent pin points
evening primroses
waiting for dawn
a black cat
awaits its next
a pencil in hand
and a rover on Mars
finds not one
cigarette butt
left by a wayward


Thursday, June 15, 2017

Bob Dylan

... and it continues 
to this day
he, a magpie, of sorts 
collected not only 
but the unusual 
head scratching truth 
missed by others 
yet seen  
for the first time 
open minds 
that open eyes 
were blind to see 
he filled his pockets
on streets and alleyways 
his clickety clacking typewriter
now empty pockets 
a mind smudged 
with black ink 
to white paper
from the future
to our memories
of the past.

Saturday, April 22, 2017

Where have all the Bloggers Gone?

It was as though 
the Santa Ana winds 
came suddenly 
in the night 
so that in the morning 
I sneezed
and again
the warm air
now alive 
and whatever 
yet the 
stilled air 
the mountains
one of those 
super realism paintings
the spine of LA
with the march of peaks 
holding back 
the onslaught of sand
the Mojave beyond
we nestled on this side
the Pacific
holding us at bay
and all those writers
poets and artists 
for years at the break
of dawn
tapping their hearts out
filling their blogs
for who?
they only hoped
an audience?
awaiting the words
to spill over 
as the coffee brewed 
we had our favorites
always open for 
just one more
the mundane 
made holy 
as minds reached out
for kindred spirits
to share the moment
a place in time 
this time
our time
on this mote
of rock
we call Earth
then someone blinked 
who? I don’t know 
but time caught up
with some
as if a cane
excused one so
others never held
onto anything for long
so letting go
for them
was as natural
as it is 
for me
to hold on tight.

Thursday, April 20, 2017

That Day

The foot slipped
off the rocks 
with gravity 
to blame
for the twist
and the limp
that followed
down the mountain
divided the moments 
with tiny blue 
and yellow flowers
in bloom 
the shade beneath
the pine and fir
cooled the breeze
between winces
then a large boulder
edging the creek 
provided a respite 
as the boot was unlaced
the sock pulled 
icy water
numbed the twist 
as he caught
a glimpse 
he thought
a brook trout? 
the mazy lines
olive green?
red spots with
blue halos
then gone
as his eyes
a garden of bracken 
the other side
and only later
did he discover 
a dried fern frond
a fiddlehead
in his knapsack 
the only proof 
he had left
of that moment
from a long ago
summer day.

Thursday, January 19, 2017

If You Prefer

It was during that walk
in the woods 
or if you prefer
a forest
alone and just
sunlight streaming
to a mottled earth
of green ferns 
and a rocky path 
and the breeze 
was so that 
it enveloped me 
with a kindness 
of warmth 
until I paused 
to sit atop a fallen 
sugar pine 
and was struck 
by myself 
and a beetle 
on the log
I watched and wondered 
so exquisite a creature 
could be alone too 
but now we two
and the warm breeze 
on a mountain 
and I looked 
then on hands and knees
followed that beetle 
climbing that felled tree 
and it struck me 
that he may have been
guilty to the act 
a descendant of the party
that fed on and stressed 
that towering pine 
so that one day 
it gave up
and laid itself to rest
and now I stared 
an hour or so
until tears
with euphoric
to be graced 
by God
and that moment
so long ago
forever is
my touchstone
for this thing
called life.

Thursday, November 10, 2016


It’s funny that  
he bore witness 
to news 
written on stone 
images of deer 
tracks of bear 
and buffalo  
breaking news 
on screens 
that glow 
never mind 
in dark corners  
never to see 
the light of day 
long ago 
by a whipsaw 
now hanging 
on that restaurant 
the old man looked 
and sipped his coffee 
and knew
the writing was