a turn away
from pursuit
from a life
from himself
an escape
from others
from definition
from self-immolation
a denial
of projection
of supposition
of expectation
a purge
of arrogance
of shame
of the soul’s anger
a belief
in the present
in hope
in simplicity
a meaning
in the chaos
in the day
in himself
a direction
toward difference
toward laughter
toward each other
a movement
toward trust
toward friends
toward love
(December 9, 2025)
“We are all in the gutter, but some of us are looking at the stars.”
—Oscar Wilde
Late at night, beneath a new moon, after too much cheap vodka and pot, a group of us, friends for most of our lives, gathered out on Tipton Road, a one lane gravel road running between two farms a few miles outside of town. The closest light glowed dimly from a farm house a mile or so in the distance. Infrequently faces were illuminated briefly like angels in old paintings as someone lit a cigarette or another joint only to disappear quickly back into the dark. We talked quietly about impending graduation, going off to college, or jobs, or the military; our parents, our girlfriends, knowing we were all losing touch as we spoke.
As we headed back to the cars, someone said, “Where’s Jackie?” He had wandered off on his own without anyone noticing. We all started calling for him in the dark. No response. We called again, then again: no response. Then faintly from a ditch next to a corn field down the road, we heard him giggle to himself, then shout out, “The stars— Man— look at the stars— look up— the stars are so close.” As one, we all looked up. The stars were brilliant and beatific, as for that moment were we.
We pulled Jackie out of the ditch, staggered to the cars, then finally back into the dark to find our separate ways home.
(March 29, 2024)
Together we drank and sang
into the night; we were true
to ourselves and each other.
Today, even the half-hearted
are cut down by the heartless.
What chance did our song have?
Tonight in the distance,
I hear a solitary flute player.
I think of you, and weep.
(June 17, 2022)
four haiku with a tanka couplet
Old rock and country
play on the jukebox inside.
Song blends into song.
Men slouch at the bar,
vaguely watching the Astros.
Once, they were children.
The volleyball teams
serve, set, and sweat in the sun.
We watch from the shade.
Beneath the old oak,
I talk with friends over beer:
“Life is but a dream.”
The afternoon drifts like clouds;
seasons fold into seasons.
(April 24, 2022)
Listen to your friends
as they laugh with you at lunch,
so sweet and so tart.
Every second passes
from nothing into nothing.
(December 17,2021)
from a work in progress: “process, not a journey” (63)
inevitably
we would join hands
twirl a circle
with wild abandon
then fall into laughter
on the fresh cut grass
.
summer was summer
for longer than a summer
could be or ever would
be again
.
when the kids on the street
were everyone we knew
and the world was safe
nearby
(June 16, 2020)
a friend’s letter from overseas
from a work-in-progress, “process, not a journey” (41)
cold rain
brings spring
her post arrives
too brief
yet still hope
(March 21, 2020)
by
A little more than a month ago, one of my work mates proposed that she, a math teacher, and myself write a haiku a day for a month. After 37 haikus (I wrote more than one some days), I am going to stop the exercise. I think that my fellow English teacher proposed the undertaking in order to make her write everyday. I do this already, so it did not motivate me to write. I did find it a calming activity most days: a time to stop and think about what was in front of me either physically, mentally, or spiritually. However, it also deflected my attention away from other poems I had been working on. Usually I post about 15 or so poems a month (sometimes even pushing to 20). In October, because of the haiku event, I posted 38 new poems. I like haiku, and like writing them. Usually I make up parameters for my writing in an arbitrary and random manner. During the exercise, I used the traditional 5-7-5 syllable count, although I have in the past ignored that stricture focusing more on the brief flash of attention than on a numbers game. Figuring the syllable count is more of a guideline than a law. I don’t plan on giving haiku up; I’m just not going to sit down each day to write one. I have always written in small snatches of time, never having the leisure to write for extended lengths during the day. So, haiku, and imagism, lend themselves well to going from start to finish in the brief time I have to write. However, I also like spending time in my head as I go through the day, thinking about a longer piece. Therefore, as I stated at the beginning of this ramble, I am going to end my participation in the project. Thanks to all of you who read and liked the work I have posted over the last month.
(October 31, 2019)
The bar exudes warmth.
The old bourbon is loquacious;
our talk’s tangental.
(October 13, 2019)
Sunday afternoon,
drinking beer with an old friend,
memoir’s lost chapters
(September 29, 2019)
No one is alone:
the pale, pale moon of morning
offered to us all.
(August 16, 2020)
from “Renditions of Change,” a work in progress
In various taverns
around town,
we have spoken tegether
for years, gathering strength
from our gentle laughter
over beer, books, and beatitudes.
Each of us offers what we can,
then part renewed.
(June 6, 2019)
subtext 