A rose requires
no one to notice
it bloom; come spring,
it just blooms.
(March 27, 2026)
Category: ambition
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Poem
by
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Maise, our dog, lounges on the over-stuffed arm
of the old leather chair which squats squarely
next to a bare window in the front room.
The late afternoon sun pours bright puddles
of warmth on the floor for her to bathe in;
and from which, if inclined, she may muster
yips and growls at people slowly walking
their sweatered dogs on the sidewalk outside.
I fear falling on ice still lingering
on neighborhood paths, so we stay inside.
But that is just an excuse, I hate cold
weather as much as I tolerate heat’s
dominion during the long summer months.
Even when I, like this poem, go nowhere.
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I’ve tossed yarrow stalks on a table,
and stared blankly at arcane cards
pretending at small divinations.
Last week I’ve been reading poetrythat survived orally for millennia
before copied slowly onto a page.
I’ve done all these things before,so much so I almost recognize
the footprint’s patterns in the sand.
Each morning repeats itself:I let the dogs out, start coffee, piss,
as if the sun wouldn’t rise otherwise.
Yet, it does, as it will again:so starkly beautiful, so new.
(December 15, 2025)
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Teleological
by
All day the sky lurks darkly:
low, grey, thick with rain.
Across the back garden,
a mourning dove’s arc
becomes itself wholly
in a violent flutter
of feathers and leaves
as it finally drops
deep within the oak’s
dark twisted branches.
I have so many taskswhich take little time;
yet, I do not move.
I’m already here.
(July 18, 2025)
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I finished reading (again) I, Claudius by Robert Graves this morning. It is the RFB book for July. I first read it when I was in high school, forty years ago. I loved it then, and loved it again this time. It is a historical novel, set in Imperial Rome, told from the point of view of Claudius, who is seen as a harmless buffoon by his murderous relatives. Because of their opinion of him, he manages to survive all of the palace intrigues, and by the end of the novel, becomes emperor of Rome. (This is not really a spoiler if you have any knowledge of Roman history). The book ends with Claudius being declared emperor. In the sequel Claudius the God, his stint as ruler of Rome is told. I don’t have any plans on reading it again, but who knows. I remember it being as fun as I, Claudius. I, Claudius is funny, and historically accurate, as far as I know. The colder than ice ambitions of the characters as they maneuver for power is stunningly familiar to the current political situation here in the US. (sadly).
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Most of my lies
belong to me
forming a tight
enameled sarcophagus
in which I will be
remembered.
Others I have
gathered overtime
like dust bunnies
in unused front parlors
tucked softly under chairs.
Like someone else’s
discarded old clothes,
they are obvious,
and fit poorly. Over time,
I have become comfortable
with most of life’s happenstance.
Even now I pretend to know
in my silence, nodding sagely
over other’s conversations,
as if I had some wisdom
beyond circumstance,
allowing their thin opinions
to cling to me, layering
my cold emptiness
beneath wet shrouds.
(March 7, 2025)
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I approach a common ledge.
It was once, in a different world
than this, a waterfall cascading
to the half-hidden rocks below.
Oblivious, I would often sit,
feet dangling casually above
the water’s icy swirl, listening
close to the whispers beneath
the roar of the waterfall’s
incessant gush and rush.
For hours, I would watch. The mist
would rise and fall from soft depths,
beckoning me with seductive arms
toward an unrequited leap of faith.
Now, a clarity, weighted with remorse
and infantile regret to change,
whets the air with metaphor.
The rocks are dry and stark,
full of sharp consequences,
and vaguely permanent decisions.
Dust slips slowly among the cracks.
The contrast between then and now
cuts a razor line across thin skin;
blood beads like dew on a leaf,
hesitating before falling away.
Afraid to fail even in the attempt,
I turn away, once again lost.
(October 30, 2024)
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I have been writing poetry since I was fifteen. There were proto-moments earlier where I wrote and enjoyed writing, but those were mainly assignments for school. For almost the last 50 years I have considered myself a poet. Over the last few years, I have submitted some of my work to various lit magazines in a sporadic and random manner. I have even had some accepted for publication. And I appreciate their efforts. I am not making any claims toward the quality of my poetry. Some days I think I am writing pretty well, but when I read it again days, weeks, or even years later, I think: my writing is pretty crappy. Lately I have been leaning more toward the crap judgement. I am not looking for any affirmation from others, because I know that doesn’t really mean anything more than my own opinion of my work. Yet, one must have some confidence in one’s ability to create in order to continue, and that confidence has to come from somewhere whether from others comments, or one’s own arrogance. The last few days, weeks, I have asked myself why I continue to write after all this time. Why do I take the time to work over a poem, to shape it into something I think is a poem. Then I post it to social media, and on my own blog. I get a handful of responses indicating that someone, somewhere read it. For a few seconds, I bask in some stranger’s positivity. I do appreciate those who read my work, whether or not they comment. However, I wonder why I bother. Especially since I am currently in a downward spiral as far as my own opinion of what I write. I have gone through this cycle before, and have always shrugged off the doubt eventually and continued on. I normally say I write because I have to write, but I think it is more accurate to say I write because I write. It is simply something I do. I am not sure what I would do if I didn’t write. Drink more than I already do, become more bitter than I already am? Perhaps. I don’t think I will find out, because I have confidence I will continue to write (good or bad), as I have for almost 50 years.
(June 28, 2024)
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the desire for words
inspires delusion
the ambitionlaced in envy
clots the throatwith small words
small ideasuntil all that’s left
to say wheezespast dry lips
in a finalthin sigh
no onecan hear
(March 15, 2024)
subtext 