from a work in progress: “process, not a journey” (45)

the field is a smooth green

small lines define

the gain and the loss


there is no loss

there is no gain

we are there


flowers and flowers

dance in decay

no daffodils today


he sighs and wanders

along his way another day

another day


time is the construct

the die never falls

it just falls

(March 27, 2020)

Daily Prayer

“we are our own prisons.”

            –Joel Brouwer

barely audible

tumblers click

into place

words turn keys

jam snap off

and trap us here

telling the same tale

confident the end

will change for us

confident the end

will not end for us

as it always has

forever and ever


nets are made of holes

from a work in progress: “process, not a journey” (20)

she remembers the future

he slips through the past

she watches patterns within

patterns unfold like ice

he reweaves strands

unravelling on the floor

the difference lies

in the holes between

(January 28, 2020)


if change will happen it will

happen now whenever

it happens so simple

yet still fear stays

the turn in the dance

the conversation the poem

where change shifts without

the moment noticed within

light which drifts through a window

or rose petals scattered

across an afternoon floor

oblivious as a sleeping cat

(November 1, 2019)

Up Before Dawn

The house’s silence

echoes the darkness outside.

A wind chime rings once.

(October 8, 2019)

This Day Today

“same as it ever was”

                        David Byrne

Less time waits ahead

than has been left behind.

I enter the last third

of my life as if entering

a room in a familiar

house. Lasts will out pace

firsts, until the last breath

sighs into the stale air,

the last heart beat falters

to finish the room’s silence

like the last furtive shadows

flee an early morning sun.

Still, this day is my day,

until it is not, and I move on.

(September 30, 2019)

The Eternal Now

Sunday afternoon,

drinking beer with an old friend,

memoir’s lost chapters

(September 29, 2019)

Cliff Face

Too near-sighted to see

a larger view, he holds

close to the present.

He has no memory

beyond now; but

with tight-curled fingers,

it is edge enough,

if only for a moment,

to hang a life upon.

(March 30, 2019)


Rose petals on a ground

Like flowers in a slow conversation’s

eddy, he floats through his circular day.

Nothing’s amiss. Almost, as memory,

the pattern persists; almost as if he

whispers to someone who listens nearby.

Each flower’s petals fall, by troubled turns,

until the air is not enough to hold 

the incoherent world; and, like glass,

it shatters into the composting earth,

oblivious to its own slow demise.

The flower unfolds into its silence;

the swift flutter of bird song in the trees;

the rough caress of dry leaf on dry leaf;

the winter wind’s incessant pulse and pause;

are nothing to his flower’s petal’s fall.

(March 20, 2019)


Portland Japanese Garden Shoot

all folds

into now:




all’s nothing—

no more

no less

only now


with you

(March 12, 2019)