We stepped
into the field
of possibility,
and found
only wreckage
of the words
we left behind.
Love is naive
if it’s to survive.
(March 12, 2026)
Category: broken
-
a scream like lightning
rough ragged quick
followed by male laughter
then more garbled screams
like dogs growling
lights go off and on
upstairs then downstairs
the front door opens
light stabs across the yard
then the door slams shut
a bedroom light remains on
a car guns out of the driveway
then shoots off into the dark
then silence
(February 28, 2026)
-
he shifted to the third person
someone outside his skin
someone easier to understand
someone easier to forgive
somewhere easier to hide
he felt under interrogationfor years answers formed easily
short sentences small words
now the simple questionswere grey nuanced and difficult
set with slow traps and baited
with articulate parenthesis
now he was no longer firstnow he had someone to blame
(February 5, 2026)
-
“the world is too much with us”
-W. Wordsworth
no longer the getting and blind spending
though that is still here teeming at our feet
like low-level radiation leaking
into the spongey ground we walk upon
but the powerful’s thick drooling anger
flailing curses wildly on everyone
that does not resemble their idea
of a pastoral past they never knew
this is the time I have come to live ina time where the soft smell of hope lingers
like a dusty corpse left alone at home
when to be cloaked in ironic disdain
is to disguise an intellectual
self-revulsion that equivocates death
(January 10, 2026)
-
It happens right here
in front of us:
close enough to feel
the blood splatter;
close enough to hear
her lungs wheeze;
close enough to smell
the rusty wet iron.
We shrug and move on.What’s there to do?
But scream,
and point fingers;
then wake up to start
another day in America.
(December 25, 2025)
-
storms rage without rain
like shrouds across the dry earth
trees drop their dead leaves
each night grows longer
one more minute of light less—
incremental death
i’m tired of trying—
too cynical to pretend
darkness has not come
it is ironic
with the weight of centuries
nothing can be done
the sycamore’s branches fallI fear spring will not return
(October 21, 2025)
-
I had a dream/nightmare this morning. I was returning to a teaching job at a high school where I taught English Literature and Composition 14 years ago. The dream began at an English Department meeting where we were being introduced to a newly purchased curriculum that emphasized teaching the students how to spell. The curriculum came with “can’t fail lessons” and lots of pre-made, easy to grade, worksheets. I was arguing against the program, of course. I tried to explain the benefits of teaching reading and writing through a workshop system, of course. No one was listening to me, or the presentation from the district, of course. Instead, the other teachers spent the time complaining about their students and the administration, of course. Richard, my friend, tried to calm me down, but I took it as he was just patronizing me to get me to shut up. The meeting broke up. I wandered the halls looking for my classroom. I realized that no one had shown me where I was supposed to teach. The halls were crowded. It seemed to be lunch, since no one was in any of the classrooms, instead they were milling about in the common areas. Teachers rushed about, overwhelmed. Students gossiped, politely ignoring me as I walked around the building, lost. I never should have come back to teaching, I thought. I should quit now, I thought. But I can’t quit. I need the money: If I quit, I won’t have any income, I thought. I kept walking around the building in a growing panic. I didn’t know where to go. I woke up, as I remembered that I was retired, that I had a pension, that I wasn’t teaching anymore. That I did not have to teach anymore. It was over. It was over.
(September 10, 2025)
-
Just another day:
the children go off to school;
students are gunned down.
-
The adage goes
To save for a rainy day,
But the rain doesn’t rain much
Anymore. When it does
I watch the grass, trees,
And flowers left dance,
A hollow ghostly dance.
I look around the circle;
To see ritual filled eyes
momentarily hope. We are
Lost. The moment’s all
That is left. Tomorrow’s
Too late. It rains
For hours. the air cools,
At least ‘til morning.
Nothing’s changed;
All is as it has been. Yet,
The streets dry quickly,
And the earth cracks
Open like an empty kiss
Bestowed upon a corpse
As a last blessing.
(August 22, 2025)
-
Nothing is complicated.
Everything is simple,
if not simplistic.
Caught in worry, we
trouble our troubles
which are nothing really.
I read a poem todayon the internet: the poet,
obviously under the influence
of Bukowski, judges the bartender
for her intertwined tattoos
and for her storied fucking.
He ignores that what we writeoften says more of the writer
than the subject of the poem.
We are the pen and the paper.
While in the slow dusk of life,
we see only with myopic eyes.
I’ve winnowed enough truthfrom any number of lies to know
there is little difference, and
I’m not sure I trust anyone
anymore, especially myself
when it finally comes to that.
(June 30, 2025)
-
Some days just walking—
and I lean from the earth’s core
like a falling star.
I stand up quickly,birds, planets, and stars swarm like flies;
I fall to my knees.
Nothing is stable,yet, I expect the sunrise
as I kneel in prayer.
One hand touches a wall,the other reaches into air
for something not there.
The earth spins about the sun,as my fingers lose their grip.
(May 3, 2025)
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