to sleep
we pretend
first to sleep
lay down
close our eyes
drift
until we are
no longer
awake
we dream
as we sleep
as if we are
awake
rather than
dreaming
(January 29, 2026)
Category: floating world
-
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.
-
inevitable
by
I make our dinner—
noodles with snow peas and shrimp.
She is not hungry.
We have forgottenhow many times we’ve been here.
Decades of hope lost.
Another year ends—Our pensions are still enough;
the night darkly falls.
We drink to forget—Tonight we dance a circle;
again, we are here.
Again, day falls into night.Life is inevitable.
(New Year’s Eve, 2025)
-
rain
by
a soft drought-ending rain
falls overnight
and into the morning
one liveswithin the moment
only
when one understandsthere is nothing
to stand under
and lets the rainwithout metaphor
wash over you
(December 8, 2025)
-
The dogs wake me to feed them.
So, I go down stairs half-asleep.
They dance on their hind legs,
then happily wag their tails
as they wolf down their kibble.
Moments after licking the bowls clean,
they are back upstairs curled asleep
in tight balls next to Lisa.
These are my days now: no longer clottedwith work tensions from day into dreams;
no longer consumed by other minds.
I have my books, our garden, our friends,
and the time to tend to them all.
It is my life to live as I live it.
(April 21, 2025)
-
I have a Spring cold,
my chest thick with congestion.
Still, I go outside.
One must be at work,they say, for inspiration
to find room to breathe.
Oxalis from mom’shouse in Victoria grows
beneath the iris.
Our yard is chaosplanned out from the beginning;
nature is random.
The roses need to be pruned.A hummingbird whirrs nearby.
(April 11, 2025) -
“You seem quite normal. Can you tell me? Why
does one want to write a poem?
Because it is there to be written.“—William Carlos Williams
somewherefor decades now
it has been there
in this sequence
of unlined sketch books
waiting
unwritten as I write
out of a present
necessity
never knowing the why or how
anxious each moment
it will not
trusting
it will be
(April 10, 2025) -
Our two dogs scuffle loudly at my feet.
Curtains flutter in the window near me.
The afternoon has suddenly grown late.
I do not like the book I am reading,
I put it down and pick up another.
It is one I’ve read before: poetry,
so it’s like I’ve never read it at all.
“the mind and the poem are all apiece”
A few weeks later than they did last year,the roses have begun to bloom again.
Though, perhaps not, my memory follows
its own soft path through the rooms of the house.
The dogs with their play tussle forgotten
curl in the corner upon each other.
(April 1, 2025)
-
the pause between
your question
and my answer
goes unnoticed
as if what I say
is ever easy
as if the cold mornings
before driving to work
in the dark
were never a part
of the life we lived
of who we became
as if these small seconds
as leaves fell
through the light
late after work
or Lilith dancing
in New Orleans’
rain-slicked streets
or the grain of sand
glinting in the sun
weeks after our beach trip
never occurred
like most of life
(December 2, 2024)
-
Jiggers of time measured out:
a mixture of meals, dog walks,
and predictably mundane
intrusive thoughts. Skoal!
(November 15, 2024)
-
Sun and shadow dapple the ivy
as it unfurls slowly up the wall.
Just a few days after the solstice,
the summer’s long heat rises early
from the damp coolish darkness beneath
the foliage in the garden bed.
Two cardinal couples flit between
the long branches of the chinquapin
twittering love songs through the morning,
while the dogs stalk lizards through the yard.
(June 29,2024)
-
Minnows nibble on my toes
as I sit in Clark’s Creek
where it deepens to my waist,
and runs slow a few miles
below the bridge into town.
It is spring, and the trees hangtheir new leaves over the creek
like a secret green cave
where all answers are contained.
I am nine years old, and happy.
I know nothing beyond myself.Catfish hide in the tree’s roots
that uncoil into the creek,
as copperheads and moccasins
slide past unnoticed nearby.
(April 12, 2024)
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