Dad at Work Repairing Antique Furniture

There was always a way; a way he knew

to map an idea out of the landscape

lying before him like an unfinished 

puzzle; some way to reshape creation

with a simple jig. His mind danced about

the problem, as he rose and sat, sat and 

rose to walk across the yard cursing his 

thoughts for not seeing it: so simple, so

obvious. He’d lumber back to the bench,

pick up the pieces of wood and begin

to cast the abstract into the concrete.

Beneath his broken hands, he would divine 

a new pattern from the pattern inscribed 

in the broken palimpsest of the wood.

(September 26, 2021)

adrift (114)

in the dark a red thrum quickens 

the edge of remembrance like light’s 

first glimmer across the sea 

I trace my gnarled fingers along the slick 

interior walls to justify what it is 

that pushes back my intentions 

like the egg in childhood’s experiment 

which floats in a glass of salt water 

I drift seemingly unsupported 

with vague suppositions and 

innuendo to tangle like seaweed 

trapping my voice below the waves 

and what I would if I could speak 

drowns in my first breath 

like a fish mouthing silent words 

(February 3, 2021)

how poetry asserts itself

from a work in progress: “process, not a journey” (17)

he alludes to a poem as if others

know what he thinks about before he can

speak which in this case means before he can

think his thoughts being like Rube Goldberg

devices clacking along tripping springs and

traps which propel the odd idea along

tangential routes until finally falling

into its assigned slot and everything

stops and silence expands like waves of water

rippling across the surface of a lake

eventually lapping the far shore

where a small boy plays with a wooden boat

never once thinking about poetry

(January 23, 2020)


I do not know

what it is

I do,

nor if what I do

is possible:

a girl, in creative writing,

says she knows


about love. Yet,

she writes

a love poem;

so lovely,

so simple,

so honest,

that I believe

in possibility’s



in that moment.

(December 2, 2019)

Ink Blot

What is here is there

only when it is here now–

the pen on the page

(September 30, 2019)

Without Clearly Marked Exits

A room carved

into his heart–

no door,

but a room

without a candle.

His heart

a hollow room

without a candle.

He desired a candle,

to watch it burn,

but there was no match,

or he would burn,

the world would burn,

the house would burn

into ash,

into ash,

into ash:


and wind.

(June 20, 2019)

The Corners of the Mouth (providing nourishment)

from “Renditions of Change,” a work in progress

I return again

and again to

gain small bits

of what she offers.

Often drunk

at her table,

I feed on

her infinite root.

Even as I am

changed, Poetry

absorbs the earth

and all upon it.

What part I am,

what part I have

become, rises

into her dance.

(March 6, 2019)


from “Change,” a work in progress

Other’s discontent wears

on me. No peace exists

as time’s delusions

divide all eternity.

(January 29,2019)

Waiting (nourishment)

from “Change” a work in progress

Too often, when I find time

to write, the clamor of the day

staggers about drunkenly,

muddling my thoughts. So,

I wait, go for a walk, cook.

Eventually all the falderal

falls away to silence;

and, I write again.

(January 22, 2019)

The Creative

from “Change” a work in progress


I was

not here;

but still,

I am


In time,

I am




the egg.

(January 19, 2019)