turn turn turn (140)

with spring’s violence flowers burst

into bloom from winter’s death

as chimes toll slowly in the tree

mere weeks ago ice creaked

tightly along the chase tree’s

twisted branches as the chimes

hung limp and people froze

to death alone at home

(May 9, 2021)

Clouds Drift Apart

The moon’s still there;

look up. Happiness lies near

the ground where you stand.

(April 22, 2021)

tithe (110)

to assuage the beast

i toss my heart into the fire

smoke billows angrily

against the oblivious sky

(January 26, 2021)

Solace in Hope

All day the rain fell

Soaking the cold winter ground

The year ends tonight

(December 31, 2020)

a darker shape was always present

from a work in progress: “process, not a journey” (78)

after the worst of summer’s heat

we’d sit in the grass

beneath the pecan and cottonwoods

away from the radiant streets and sidewalks

the adults spoke of friends 

far away or long dead

they’d laugh and tell stories

which we were not a part of yet

we ran wild through the night

afraid of nothing

(July 18, 2020)

a friend's letter from overseas

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)

winter’s end

from a work-in-progress: process, not a journey (40)

blue bonnets bloom in the backyard

as a new plague floods the city

fear all that has changed enough

to become a normal day yet forget

what patterns have been replaced

by emptiness reweaving a past

which should have existed like flowers

found pressed between the pages

of a favorite book marking the poem

you read to me when we were in love

instead of these tattered nets I mend

as best I can from wisps of memory

in the hope a better world will blossom

like the wild flowers in the backyard

(March 20, 2020)

Three poems

from a work in progress, “process, not a journey” (35-37)


the cold rail vibrates

beneath his hand


It’s inevitable

he stands and waits


Time Enough

patience sips her tea

as she watches

the bees flit and hover

among the roses in her garden


a breeze shifts the leaves

to the left and right


as above so below

morning breaks

pink and blue

beneath the ragged clouds

as the wind chime

in the chase tree

ripples through the yard

(March 6, 2020)

Another New Year

Another cold night flows

into yet another dark day.

For more than forty years,

I have spoken to silence

unvoiced presumptions,

unvoiced expectations.

Why do I still presume

tomorrow with change?

Why do I still expect

that day will come?

I’m tired of talking,

pretending some one will hear.

(January 1, 2020)