The Sky About to Cry

It is not quite full yet.

The yellow jacket nest is still.

The trees are awake to a grey brightness;

The still clouds are grey filled.

The last shower nests

On the pavement floor, but

The sun has not toweled it up in arms.

I am watching the moisture, which

tilting down to my feet asks me

to drink of fluids flowing

from another’s mouth.

Coffin of Dreams

It was day, but it is night now.

Light is turning off

One Switch after another

Congealing the fate of the day.

I want to slam the door on those who sleep

Waking them up to finish our conversations.

My dreams have been like coffins

For unfinished business affairs

With the jury still out, but

The memories buried

And the coffin sealed shut against tomorrow.

Moss blocking a line of a tombstone’s

Melody sung in difference–

Go home again.

Go home again!




Everyone needs a vacation, I thought.

Vacation as in vacate one’s agenda–temporarily.

Give way to falling boxes and mismatched walls, 

or is that just a story we all made up, and

now we have to grow up to a new reality.

Weren’t computer’s supposed to save us work, I asked.

Ask the Koch Brothers someone replied.

A box just hit me in the head trying to wall me in.


Away for Ten Days

I am in a Masters Program (MFA) in Creative Writing.  Now is our ten day residency, so it is a very busy time, and I will not be posting until the first week in August.  There is so much on my site….take some walks on it, till I return. Hope you’re enjoying the summer.  



I like things dark

     Turkey, coffee and eggs.

Grandpa had a chicken farm.

        I was a Candler;

        I was child labor;

        I was paid in malteds

           Across the street at the luncheonette.

So rare a double yolk,

But this morning Sunday breakfast—

   An omelet with three eggs—

The first egg opened

   And out pours a double yolk.

   Long time no see—one was broken—

   Making me doubt, but yes it was double.

The second egg opened—another double.

History in the making, and me cracking

  A silent bet with the Gods.

  Was I on a roll with the Muses

   And their gentle tithings?

Reflection:  Yup, three in a row, and now I am left wondering about the rest of the box reminding me to respect my fortune and not go the way of the gambler.

P.S.  So far five out of 12.  



I thought I searched for enlightenment

Only to be disappointed over and over again

As it eluded me, as nothing was good enough

To break the mold–the algebraic pattern inside me.

I found myself always faltering with echoes of

You’re not enough arising over and over again

From the past to the present from the known 

To a thousand faces of strangers when something

True jumped out at me and like a Temple bell chiming–

Through a small synchronistic moment of chance.

“You’re on the wrong journey,” Silence said and queried me.

“What were the first words you spoke?” Silence hungered,

hungered to hear my answer.  “Go Happy, Go Lucky.”

It took weeks till garbled words became  dancers.  It is amazing.

Of all those scenes leaping across the screen, I picked

Those words.  How did I not become a Lucky Strike.

Often still I felt misunderstood, unlucky, unenlightened.

I wondered.  Again, “You’re on the wrong journey.

It was enlightening.  “How do I do the happiness journey?”

As I sat at my desk eating an early dinner, after no breakfast or lunch besides a large cup of chai, and trying to get myself realigned from the strange start to my day, and the absolutely grey and cloudless sky with an intolerable amount of humidity, I found myself looking for something,  Ending up becoming engrossed in sorting out papers to find it, I decided to trust life that everything would get done, including the reading I wanted to finish doing for school.  So I continued and ended up entertaining myself with a movie I had never heard of–HECTOR AND THE SEARCH FOR HAPPINESS, while I continued my search. This is a beautiful beautiful movie well worth watching. I highly suggest it, because it speaks to things on many levels. I found it on Netflix. Enjoy. It is wonderful.  I’m going to watch it again.  Who knows maybe I’ll find the paper I’m looking for.



What it means to be awake/Thoreau

What if Thoreau’s numbers below are right?

Where did he get them from?

I am going back to my old ways 

     a poem a day.

Am I so rare?

Some days

The traitorous designs 

     of humanity

become so bottle necked inside

     I scream in bitter profanity.

My cat stares at me from across the room

She is writing poetry about me

     and waiting

          for me 

     to change my tune

      to awaken.

“The millions are awake enough for physical labor; but only one in a million is awake enough for effective intellectual exertion, only one in a hundred million to a poetic or divine life. To be awake is to be alive. I have never yet met a man who was quite awake. How could I have looked him in the face?”  –Thoreau