Saturday, November 11, 2006

No Liberty

As rising wind bent supple limb

I turned quick, the tree gave

a short sharp sigh

No liberty have I this house

though here do I presume

this porch

Ominous thunder unrelenting

from mounting summer storm

lacing heavy falling rain

through twisting maple leaves

I would have shut the windows

to the rain but no liberty

have I this house

What majesty this house does

hold, full and frail

replete and torn

it whispers soft kept secrets

The rain now just a gossamer

veil, a black cat sits expectantly

just inside the closed glass

doors, mute requests for food

or a scratch behind the ears

Yet I cannot oblige

I have no liberty this house

The Siamese guardian returns,

dry, no worse for the sudden storm

complaining in haughty cat fashion

that I should either feed or

leave, my choice, but please decide.

Tuesday, October 31, 2006

Holding Dear The Night

Sleep came fleeting, scant breeze

Barely aloft the humid night air

They walked slowly, stretching time

tentatively hand in hand

unsure of the path

across moon shadows laced

with the sharp bark

of night dogs

Sleep came on cat's feet, stalking

scenting the heavy air, pause

Two children alone together

not knowing life's course

fingers interlaced

neither leading or following

quick shallow breaths

tight hearts pounding

Sleep came in silent release, day's last

lingering details displaced

Leaving deep shadows for the

embrace of forest's undergrowth

weaving through tendril vines

shoulders touching hands

clasped tight to ward off

the trepidation darkness

Dream as an extension of day lights

the inner recesses of sleep

Following in each others foot

steps, desire's siren song

calling from the heart

of the forest glen

pushing deeper pulled by

an unknown promise

Dream as a mind story unfolding

revelations showing at each new crease

Stopping by sudden unspoken need

exertions' panting leans against

the cool smooth Beech's skin

soft loam under foot

quiet hand never leaving

gentle holding hand

Dream as an artesian spring over

flowing relentlessly over filling

Continuing the journey of

unspoken need now oblivious

to primal night fears

willful hesitation giving way

to instinctual surrender

racing to the forest edge

Dream as a mist shrouded vision

a reflection in a window

Emerging from forest's last

holding grasp to collapse side

by side enveloped by soft

meadow grasses bathed in

bright moonlight drifting

to sleep beneath a starry canopy

Sleep came with hushed breathing

holding dear the night in a dream

Friday, October 06, 2006

Amid Warring Cries

Amid warring cries for peace

we have heard the lullaby

and succumb to the dreamless sleep

rocked in the handmade cradle

of the eternal holocaust.

We drift a warm bed made

when half the world away

a mother cries, “My Sargent son

of only nineteen years is dead;

laid aside his hero father.”

To enter the maternal void

of wedding white she bespeaks

the seed of new cries, she carries

tears to his shroud, accepting

his honor within a folded flag.

There alone to join as one:

we have laughed and loved,

and now fought and died,

all in the name of freedom,

it's golden chariot to ride.

As the one, another yet becomes,

amid warring cries of peace

we drift a warm bed made

to enter the maternal void,

there alone to join as one,

as the one, another yet becomes,

rocked in the hand made cradle

of the eternal holocaust.


Friday, September 29, 2006

Queen Anne's Lace

D├ębutante dilettante

Hungry stares

wanton sighs

soft velveteen treasure


tatting crossed thighs

Demure lilting laughter

veiled wide

tell-me eyes

soft silken born whispers


tattling lies

Victorian secrets unkept

half hidden

half worn

soft satin filigree accent


tattered and torn

Suburban domestic



soft cotton white matron


lace adorned.

Monday, September 25, 2006

Two Voices

You have every right

to be upset with me.

I came unannounced

to visit him and

and be with you

We will banter

he and I

recalling and


while you sit

quietly reading

the last few pages

savoring those

last few


Politely present
practice poise


time worn

versions of

lost loves


labors glossed,


youth's decline

two old men spar

exchanging practiced

subtle jabs, each

with fighter's pride

showing off his




the warmth

from candle

flame cold





angular smiles






soft cloth

drape caress

full round

thigh line


to ankles




The book



from some




dancing eyes

Wednesday, September 13, 2006


Sitting alone, except for the
insistent cat at my ankles,
across the dayroom, through
the open door
I watched my father sleep.
Propped up with pillows,
covered with an unwrinkled
sheet to guard against the
coming evening's chill

He was not sleeping but adrift

Hunkered down against Spring's
last morning frost with steaming
coffee fresh from the thermos
and a cigarette, lit from the last,
intently watching his rod tip
for the tell-tale tickle
of a brown trout. Perhaps a
third to join the other two
already nestled in his grass
lined creel.

The rod tip turns

With practiced measured patience
he safely sets the coffee aside
and caresses the rod, finger
touch upon the line

The rod tip turns again

"Hot damn" says he and deftly sets
the hook

"Hot damn!" His exclamation
rises with the sharp bending
of the rod, the drag screaming
as the trout turns, three pound
mono filament tears the stream's
mirror surface

Slowly reeling, in command, rod
held high, tip turning, taught
line slanting toward the unseen

Whispers, so as not to startle but
to sooth, "Come to me. Come to Papa."

The trout turns again, the
drag speaks its high pitch
complaint, fishing line tears
another momentary fissure
across the flowing stream
and then goes slack

Weary of the beguiling trout
reeling in the soft slack line
holding hope until the mouth worn
worm surfaces.

Better for this fight, not broken
his practiced hand sets a new worm
to hook, lets slip a silken cast
and reaches without looking for
his now cool cup of coffee.

Then again to drift

Saturday, September 09, 2006


After the world is laid to rest
well before the first light of dawn
silent darkness shrouds
majestic spires reaching up
to touch the stars

A pilgrimage
to a calling
without course

Standing very still, willing calm,
surrendering, only to be present
letting the night settle
around me

The journey
becomes me
complete in
the first step

In time the mind's darkness of night
breaks, the obscuring veil is torn,
ever so slowly celestial light contrasts
the earth and sky

long countless miles
beneath midday sun

Half seen steps lead into the
unfinished foundation, reaching posts
and crossbeams promise a glorified
sanctuary, the labor of man's strong hands,
the vision of a fearless heart

cleansing travel
removing the past
leaving the world

In this soaring hallowed emptiness,
amid half laid walls latticed with
rough hewn timbers, creation's
presence stirs, its living energy
as the laying of hands, uplifting

bone weary
stripped bare
well fed
arriving home

Tuesday, September 05, 2006

Ode to a Lady

Early morns cantankerous

billow fight for

dawn's first gray lights

Slowly tumbling mystical

winds rolling lithe

between cirrus lovers

Venus and Mars stand

watch at the edge

of awakening skies

Auroral coming hidden

then beneath

percale heavens

Quiet parting simply

night slipping into day

two alone go their way

Red tears cried for

the mis-picked velvet

petaled rose.

Friday, September 01, 2006


Returning to the labored

silence of a now empty


Once where there were

rains of fortune

the planted seed

of two hearts

we shared the quiet held in

each others thoughts.

Words pierce flesh

solitude tearing

warm hearts with dry harsh

winter winds.

Brown leafless seed pods

in a vase on the

buffet next to this months


Tuesday, August 29, 2006

Two Voices - Forward

Two Voices

A collection of poems written over the course of nearly 30 years. From the arrogance and innocence of youth to the vengeful musings of a crudmugeon. Romance, philosophy, death, religion, even *gasp* heartbreak are woven through these paltry offerings. In these scribblings you will find unfinished paintings. You will see the reflection of the war years... you have to choose which war - perhaps the one that best suits you. You will encounter mystical prophets and nearly naked young ladies and grumpy old men.

The title, Two Voices, is the mystique of this collection. Two Voices is the dance I don't do. Two Voices is the magic I don't do. Two Voices symbolizes the relationship between my writing and your reading. I "speak" with my one voice and you "hear" with the second voice, your own. So we collaborate. Much of the content that you will find in my work is not there in my voice. You will paint the picture. You will hear the music. You will write the poetry. I have written these pieces. They will not be rewritten - so I can say that I don't dance. I have imparted meaning to these collections of words. Yet the value comes from you reading them - so I don't do magic.

The title, Two Voices, is an insight into my writing. Seldom if ever do we hear just one voice in our world. More often than not we are subject to barrages of voices all speaking at the same time - and then there is our internal voice(s) offering continuous commentary. Many of these pieces are an attempt to capture in some small measure that multi-dimensionality of voices. Or at least two.