Ritual consoles
through repetitions solace:
“I’ve been here before.”
(August 16, 2025)
Category: happiness
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She thought, but that it need not be mentioned.
She doubted he could understand at all.
The party pulsed around them obliquely.
She thought about her old dreams once again.
He claimed she was being irrational.
She doubted dry reason’s caste privilege.
She laughed and twirled toward the dance floor.
He kept talking as if she were still there.
Dancing in tight angles and broad circles,she thought at her best with her blue eyes closed.
He felt comfortable in closed boxes
easily stacked in a dark corner room.
She knew that reason was an emotion.
He desired life to fall tightly in place.
(May 27, 2025)
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it was just the two of us Lisa and I
too young for children we thought
now they’re all grown and goneand I’m too tired even for regret
(May 26, 2025)
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“Hold infinity in the palm of your hand
And eternity in an hour.”
—William Blake
The cabinet clock has stopped again.
After following me through the house,
the chihuahua curls in my lap,
This morning, I’ve read some poetry,
talked to Lisa over a breakfast I made,
and folded laundry. Now, I take time
to think, and write this poem
as the dog sleeps contently nearby.
I think about winding the clock, then don’t.
(April 24, 2025)
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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)
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In that moment, she danced,
as in a snow globe:
the late afternoon sun dazzled
the air in raindrops
still slowly falling from the walk way
overhangs of the ornate railings
on the buildings in the French Quarter
near the St. Louis Cathedral
where the wet streets reflected
the now unrelenting blue sky.
(April 7, 2025)
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no more than this moment of light
which is enough for now
to bring me to a halt
long enough for the dogsto look at me bewildered
then a deer rises from the earthbounds over the high grass
silent as the slow glow
of the rising winter sun
one dog noticesthe other notices
our notice
both wag their tails(January 16, 2025)
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The chihuahua pup desires in again.
He curtly scratches the sliding door glass,
then stares impatiently into the house.
His alert ears twitch and turn like radar
testing the distant reaches of the house
for his dull-witted human’s slow approach.
Then there I am. He wags his approval
then prances past to quickly patrol the house.
My slow days consist of subtle patterns,mostly woven through the minutiae of
the dog’s daily routines. He calmly herds
me about as I move from room to room,
sitting patiently nearby as I read,
or attempt to write about happiness.
(September 19, 2024)
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“Ring out Wild Bells”
—Alfred Lord Tennyson
Sending happy bells
into the spring air,
I was the center
of an expanding circle,
the rock tossed
with nonchalance
into a pond, the causality
of all that was right.
I walked solemnly
next to the road.
Both arms swung
in time, like a clock
pendulum’s metronome:
the glass coca-cola bottle
in one hand,
the claw-hammer’s heft
in the other;
the bottle— the chime;
the hammer, at once
both—bob and striker.
The inevitable had yet
to happen: the glass
shattering the air
into a cascade of tiny pain,
like ice lacing my calves
in rivulets of blood.
The moment was there
waiting to change,
patient as an old cat.
The sun was bright,
the sky— a blue clarity.
I was three, maybe four,
barely aware of my toes.
To my delight, the hammer
chimed a transcendance
against the glass bottle
like New Years’ celebrants
toasting a passing year.
(July 10, 2024)
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I would like to say
I was just visiting
that I had somewhere elseto be where I belonged
a secret place otherthan this constant vigil
I would like to saythis was a pleasant trip
that it is time to goback home again
but none of that is trueI have no where to go
and loneliness is allthat happiness is not
(June 21, 2024)
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after Fanny Howe
Lisa’s voice and laughter
Lisa singing by herself
The dogs sleeping nearby
Music playing while I cook
Food with friends’ conversation
Wine whiskey and poetry
Reading and writing
Books where sentences shimmer
Fields of flowers
A single rose in a vase
My children grown into their lives
Autumn and Spring blue skies
Slow walks in art museums
My grandchildren’s laughter
(May 9, 2024)
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