from “Renditions of Change,” from a work in progress

The storm breaks

with the new dawn.

(March 29, 2019)


from “Renditions of Change,” a work in progress

I wait more often

than react– more often

a squall line doesn’t form

but disperses in the hills.

I know you will

go, and I’ll remain.

(March 21, 2019)


from “Renditions of Change” a work in progress

To pitch lit matches 

at gasoline is not the way

to shine a light

on small irritants.

Yet, I have my tinderbox

ready to strike,

my clothes are soaked to skin,

waiting to burn.

(February 21,2019)


Syntax chains words

To you as if preordained;

There is no control.

(December 27, 2018)

Chromosome Damage (work in progress, part 3)


The sideways shift and snip

Clatters across the sand.

It’s easier to move out of the way—

Trouble passes, one remains

To proceed with plodding step

Along one’s path.


Time’s slow arc


All the variables led here

As inevitable as this morning’s

Sun striking the sycamore’s white

Bark; no god laughs as our choices.


A left, a right, a yes, a no:

Life’s crushed to binary.


I close an eye

To see the obvious

Connection: the moment.


I stumble step across a bridge

Swinging above a crevasse.


No saints guide us home,

Nor care how far we fall.

The emptiness opens

Like an aura.


This morning everyone sleeps in

As fog drifts between the trees

Near the creek and the gray sky.

The last brown leaf has fallen

From the sycamore; the solstice

Passed under a full moon.


Dusk and dawn, progressive

And simultaneous, flow through

The landscape. Yet, we think

Our futile actions have consequence.


Like you,

Light bends

Along each wave’s edge

Into separate

And singular parts.


Owning the room

As he does

With ease,



Through the door,

And takes

His place

On the sofa

Near me.

I try to leave,

But can’t.

I’m not sure


(November 29, 2018)

Weeks Before Winter Solstice


                                      “and I am

out with hanterns, looking for myself”

                        –Emily Dickinson

Despite the lights in the house,

The darkness penetrates.

It assumes positions in corners,

Presumptuous in its domain.

Like lions pace a cage’s confines,

I am lost in loops of thought

Looking for a set of keys

Which will let me inside.

Yet, there is no rest within

Nor without which can comfort

Enough to bring a closure;

Locked in my obsessions,

I worry each item in turn,

Tangled like tumblers at a fair.

(November 26, 2018)





at best—

a bird flits

across the yard

with a divine grace

from bush to tree top

as if each wing-beat,

dip, and glide

were planned


more likely— I wing

each moment; in chaos

I flail, arms akimbo—

a cartoon character

only cognizant as I fall

slowly through clouds

into a soft puff of dust

that pocks the ground


(October 4,2018)

Memory’s Vague


“Chorus   But there is no remembering the human mind.”

— Gertrude Stein

Even in the act,

the mind is not



Memory is


as past.


Yet mind




of a present

past cast

as memory–


a story still

told today.


(September 27, 2018)

the constant

SAINTS SERGIUS AND BACCHUS. Byzantine icon of Saint Sergius and Saint Bacchus

as if an aura buzzed

a neon glow along an edge

of a byzantine saint

a low level dread burns

on the periphery of his days

like a star verging on collapse

everything everywhere constantly

distracts toward simple

chaos toward tangents

askew to well ordered

paths desired in his constant

scrabble for affirmation

instead of beatific joy

in the exploding universe