... poetry ...


i have arrived at the End of Days

and it is much more tranquil than

i had imagined.

the four horsemen are docile

adversaries, more apt to hurl

a strident word than a sword

and the fires that have beset the world

do not burn our keepsakes

though the smoke permeates our space

our gold does not tarnish

and we will not lose a single

day together because of Armageddon.

... poetry ...

Tones from the bubble

i remember music
played live in crowded
sweaty rooms, sweet
with its bouquet of old
beer and lacquer
and the murmur of too
many bodies in too small
a space. i remember when
you looked a man in the
face and a handshake
was never shunned.
people are cowards. an army
of intelligence bested by
intentions, precautions.

it was said the enemy is invisible

so rather than talons the Creator
fitted him with line graphs and
statistical telemetry.

now while we wait
we wait
for nothing
the bars will never wash
the beer out, though they
will try. they will try and
try. musicians will write
about this and you will
listen from a laptop.

... poetry ...


i am moving to Montana
despite the cliché of it all
i am pulling the stakes
up and going

when i leave it all behind
i won’t ever look back,
i, in fact
never look back

there’s nothing to see

i’ve learned that a lifetime
is a collection of all the
lives we lived

here and there,
this season
and that one

if there’s yet another life
for me to live,
let it be Montana.

... poetry ...

musing after mowing

scattered around the back pasture
there is crab, St. Augustine, Kentucky blue,
ripples of weed, burr and field grasses,

dandelions, ivy, and honeysuckle,
oak and cherry wood, burrs and acorns,
branches hanging to the ground

heavy with Summer’s first muggy air,
wind and water, heat and humid,
big clouds and patches of blue,

“enough blue sky to fill an Eskimo’s pants”
means the sun will come out grandma
used to say, all of us huddled in the

back of their impressive Lincoln,
the land yacht we would call it,
and an ash tray and lighter available

in every seat, our only battle was who
got to lay up above the head boards
in the back window during nap time,

summers have come and gone, leaving their
marks, some years yield crunchy St. Augustine
grasses buckling under the weight of

our bare feet, and other years, weeds,
stabbing our tender soles, we tread
lightly through those parts of the yard,

still, tonight looms and the heaviness
has left the air, the cacophony of
croaks and whippers flies up as

the sun sinks down and I carelessly spin
the tip of my finger along the
floating ice cubes in whats left of my iced tea.

... Applachia ..., ... Autumn ..., ... beauty ..., ... country ..., ... experimental ..., ... life ..., ... poem ..., ... poems ...


finespun blue Dawn skies
cold and clear acquiesced to
heavy November gray

she surrendered her expanse
without incident, and drew her
cerulean coattails into the

carriage of night.
it was freezing in that
morning stillness. our first

freeze since Winter.
i gathered some small
logs, chopped and discarded

last Spring – surely due to
some sudden warm snap –
and built a fire in

my wood stove.

i sat here intending to
write a poem, instead all I
wrote was this:

peace is silence.

and put my pen down,
musing at the
warm crackle.

... Applachia ..., ... Autumn ..., ... beauty ..., ... country ..., ... girl ..., ... love ..., ... poem ..., ... poems ..., ... poetry ..., ... relationships ...


hues are shifting daily now
pink is orange
blue is deeper
reds are blood
greens are gone until Spring

she is in my sights at daybreak
evening she is there
crowding empty spaces
morning she returns
dancing in steady rising fog

i could watch her for hours
sleeping, standing, being,
or doing nothing at all
i savor the flavor
of the one bathed in beauty

sun rises regardless
and her color never changes
always blonde, always.

... Applachia ..., ... love ..., ... poem ..., ... poems ..., ... poetry ..., ... relationships ...

she talks of love

life is ebbing
and with it comes

women have spoken
to me of love
for half a lifetime

i have mused it
and studied its
corners and edges

analyzed its
emotions and
measured what boundaries
i could find

but it was not
she spoke of love

that i felt
the blood burn

when love
and body
and lips

she talks of love
like its her
and it is,
love was
made for lovers,
it is hers
and she is mine.

... Applachia ..., ... beauty ..., ... country ..., ... girl ..., ... home ..., ... life ..., ... love ..., ... poem ..., ... poems ..., ... the South ..., ... winter ...

mountains me

when you return
me to the

you return
me to me

they bore
me in Cities
of men

but my form
was hewn with
granite and marble

my skin stiched
with invisible seams
of laurel and ash

kudzu and Better Boy* eyes
Brunswick stew glued
i am whole

vine ripened
towering beneath
giants, oak and pine

my blood runs
over river smoothed
stones, frigid

but pure,

when you return
me to my

they welcome me in,
a long lost friend

*a variety of tomato

... Applachia ..., ... beauty ..., ... experimental ..., ... life ..., ... love ..., ... poem ..., ... poems ..., ... poetry ..., ... relationships ..., ... the South ...

A Dream Moment Over Coffee As You Were Reading Across The Room

it is a great life we live-
the weathering of a man
the patina of woman
it is a great life we love-

this is the shimmering,
the seasoning of days,
spices from stardust which
salted this fertile earth-

who knew a planet was
filled with savor?
who knew love would
spin from nothing to everything?
universes in a glance
of Sky blues-

the Whirlwind has found
her place to nest in my head-
twirling is something
invoked with a kiss.

it is a great life we live
you and i,
spinning, tumbling, billowing then
crashing against the stone
into cool salty spray
thinning, becoming, blue, gone.