Out Of Here

The Sun flies
over the horizon—
homerun

Happy Trees

The oaks in our front yard,
like a pair of randy young studs,
fling about their flirtations
at every hussy passing breeze.
This is how they procreate
I understand, I understand…
but, Lord God Almighty
why does everything,
including my nose and truck,
have to be coated with their joy?


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Posted: Private Property

A tiny speck of a splinter
moved into the palm of my hand.
I didn’t advertise “skin needing caretaker,
only sharp and pointy apply”.

I’ve made several attempts
to evict the slivery interloper, but
it screams to my bleeding-heart fingers
invoking some archaic squatter’s law.

I have the latest in high tech weaponry,
tweezers and a Swiss Army knife.
I will prevail regardless of consequences
to retain what has been mine since birth.


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Blazing Hawk

The sun climbed a tall pine,
as it does on cloudless days.
At the top, it leaped and flew, like
a blazing hawk honed in on a prey.
Its fiery feet grabbed the horizon, then
slipped away in the dark of night.


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Late Afternoon

Soft, white petals
tumble down the slope
of a gentle breeze.

Birdsong, like
a kite tail, follows
a setting sun.

My thoughts
end the day
on the night ahead.

Beef Stew

Turbulent emotions
roil like a boiling stew;
one minute it’s sliced carrots
snorkeling in the broth, the next
shriveled up pieces of beef
surfacing with the ghost of you.

Passing Through

The breeze tosses a flag
up and down, like a child,
up and down, like a child.

A robin jumps from limb to earth
singing songs, eating worms,
singing songs, eating worms.

Shadows cover lawn and drive,
touching both, holding neither,
touching both, holding neither.

A Toast

May all your blues be skies,
your darkest hours full of stars;
may the last tears you shed
water the seed of a rising sun.


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Spring Concert

tree limbs
blooming with birdsong—
standing ovation

Back-Ups

The school buss's brakes
squeal at 6:50 a.m.,
Monday through Friday.
We have an alarm clock, and
the television is set to a timer
that goes off ten minutes before.
I guess if the power gets knocked out
grinding metal on metal will replace
the obnoxious beep, beep, beep;
rain, thunder and trash can lids performing
gymnastic routines up and down the street
will suffice for the morning weather report.

Tapped Out

I looked at my hands to see
if any words were loitering about.
None lounging in the wrinkles
pitching pennies to scars and scratches,
bungee jumping from bent knuckles, nor
poised off the nails of fingers ready to type.
I took a toothpick and ran through the life lines,
nothing but remnants of some melted M & M’s.
This poem was written courtesy of the keyboard,
I was able to tap-tap-tap it for a generous loan.


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School Of Thoughts

My thoughts,
swimming like a school of porgies—
jumping, darting,
crinkle up the placid surface
of the first low tide of the day.

Would You Believe

A toothy T-Rex
came into the house, and
ate the cat, just like that.

One bite,
two gulps—her meow
was hard to swallow.

He left as he came,
all I need do is explain,
it was that bitchy cat, or me.


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(I promise the cat wasn't harmed in the writing of this poem; even an emaciated, hunger-crazed T-Rex wouldn't mess with her)

Watermark Express

Drops on the shower door, like
tiny locomotives on invisible rails,
streak through “S” curves and straight-a-ways
hauling off the remnants of a day
digging in garden dirt.

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Eating Worms

lottery blues...
birds delight
in their morning fortune

Last Stand

The last of the firewood
stands in the firebox, uniform
split and trimmed, like soldiers
in a light armored troop carrier
waiting to take on fire.

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Sibilant Sing Along

The shadow of the deck chair swayed
to strumming strings of brass wound notes
floating on shallow pools of filtered sun.
Neither sharp, nor flat, nor stuttered staccato,
just soft, and pure, and steely sweet.

Two Act Day

With high reaching wings,
and propelling blades, it ignores
the wistful wants of waiting clouds
to take the hand of a rising sun.

Seagulls circle like tethered toys
looking for silver glints of edible scales;
a pair of mallards indignantly demand
drive-through orders of hand tossed bread.

Coffee cups echo with chit-chat noise,
frying bacon wafts like a sirens song.
Morning has directed her characters of choice,
this afternoon we’ll see the wind perform.

Rude Reminder

This actually happened exactly as written.

Yesterday, on my daily walk,
a boy of about four or five
looked up at me and said, “hey! old man!”
Of course it immediately brought
my blue-sky-wandering thoughts to the top
of his lightning-striped, helmeted head.

I kept going
rummaging through my repertoire
of appropriate replies for delicate ears,
and the best I could find—
after clipping off the gray-haired adjectives,
was, “hey! young boy!”

Feeling like I’d offered equal tit for tat
I started searching through the trees
for that patch of cloudless reverie I left parked
under the pale eye of a daytime moon.

My Nikes perked up their pace for several steps,
when, like an arrow shot dead center of my back,
I heard, “I’m not young, I can ride a bicycle!”
No need to stop, turn, and hip shoot a retort,
I knew he was right, I’ve been riding for years.



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