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My Poetry and Commentary on Life

  • This Writer’s Beginnings: EarlyYears
  • Bread Loaf Influence
  • Rock and Roll High School
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  • Two Poems and a Video

    by

    reblog
    Contained & Vanishing Point (a reading)

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  • Dust

    by

    aging, borders, death, dream, existential angst, life, poetry, sleepless, sonnets, ways of knowing, worn

    The night is broken in a multitude

    of awakenings. The dogs are disturbed

    by the full moon’s motion across the sky.

    Between their futile barks, I lie awake.

    As dawn approaches you pull me closer,

    laying your head upon my chest. I sleep,

    finally drifting to the edge of dreams

    where the world is neither vast nor empty.


    Lately I have been thinking about death.

    Not my own, nor anyone’s I know, but

    Death— the absurdly inevitable 

    avalanche collapsing beneath our feet:

    as if I can know more than what I am;

    as if I am something other than dust.

    (May 31, 2026)

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  • by

    poetry
    Dark Interior

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  • Divisions

    by

    poetry
    Divisions

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  • Haunts

    by

    aging, blame, borders, broken, definition, delusion, dissatisfaction, inner speech, interpretation, interrelationships, memory, poetry, regret, relationships, sonnets

    This evening the old ghosts have returned.

    They inhabit the edges of my vision

    whispering their tired secrets to the past.

    Like scions of privilege hang in cafes

    deconstructing last night’s party gossip,

    The ghosts wail their sad regrets-she never said, 

    nor he listened- Even in death they cling

    to their moral shortfalls like life jackets.


    If there’s a hell, here is where it festers:

    the exhumation, through exegesis,

    of dead variations left to decay

    like tattered banners along the ramparts

    pretend the siege was easily broken

    and the dull ashen smoke never smoldered.

    (May 25, 2026)

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  • Epoch Encounter

    by

    aging, awareness, borders, change, climate change, future, interrelationships, poetry, sonnets


    The afternoon sun glares down without ire

    as I step out onto the front sidewalk.

    A horned lizard eyes me, suspiciously

    tilts its head into the still of the day.

    Aware without motion, I am no threat

    where I am. It’s warm in the sun, why move?

    This lumbering slow beast cannot compete. 

    It knows without knowing; we are killing 

    ourselves. Small, hot, warm-blooded, bound in fur,

    we were no more than rats when its kind loomed

    across the humid landscape. Choking on 

    our own waste, we will perish soon enough.

    There’s no hurry. It turns back, looks at me

    with disdain, then patiently darts away.

    (May 24, 2026)

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  • benowhere

    by

    abstract, acceptance, alone, liminal, poetry, present, time

    before now

    before then

    as when waits

    tomorrow


    there I was

    in the weeds

    as always

    forlorn lost


    the path stopped

    abruptly

    so clearly

    marked then gone


    outside time

    without thought

    (May 23, 2026)

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  • fixed

    by

    anxiety, broken, difference, exercise, fragments, interrelationships, liminal, meaning, perspective, poetry, reader response, revision, rewriting other poems, sentence

    1.

    i cannot move

    too much is broken

    2.

    demons live in mirrors

    and are trying to escape

    3.

    it’s almost tuesday

    yet there are no doors

    4.

    there is a dream

    i cannot see

    (May 19, 2026)

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  • Witching Hour

    by

    audacity, change, clarity, community, forgiveness, life, liminal, love, paradigms, poetry, relationships

    After picking herbs,

    She muddles the mint

    or basil depending

    on what’s to follow.

    She bruises the leaves

    like an abusive lover

    into an intimacy

    he can swallow.

    After all,

    what is allowed

    is tolerated—

    no matter

    the consequence,

    of some god’s rage.

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  • Trying to Write After Last Evening’s BBQ

    by

    acceptance, agency, aging, drinking, life, liminal, meditation, perspective, poetry, tired, writing

    I could write about the dogs,

    their usual sniffs and yips

    as they go about their doggy lives,

    but they are both curled asleep

    on the rugs in the front room;

    or I could write about Lisa, 

    who I have loved and written

    about for more than forty years,

    but she too is quietly napping

    in one of the  overstuffed chairs 

    by the back room’s windows.

    Outside, the wind waves slowly

    through the sycamore and oaks

    like a man treading water off shore.

    Earlier a friend sent me an article

    showing Americans who say they drank

    over the last year has declined

    by a third since the 1970’s.

    This does not alleviate at all

    the grey flannel feeling this hangover

    has draped across my melancholy day.

    (May 17, 2026)

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  • Insomnia

    by

    anxiety, doubt, fear, lament, poetry, time, worry

    It is three forty-seven in the morning;

    my eyes are closed, I am still not asleep.

    The old whispered violence collects

    like spittle along the corners of my lips.

    An anger suppressed by custom

    and obedience waits with patience,

    its old friend, for others to gather

    from their day of quite rage.

    The night cannot go on unbroken;

     the day will surely return to itself.

    Yet there is no reason to assume

    the moon will fall or the sun will rise.

    My eyes are closed, I am still not asleep;

    It is three fifty-one in the morning.

    (May 14, 2026)

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  • Quick Take on The Dispossessed by Ursula K. Leguin

    by

    books, literature, reader response, reading

    I finished May’s RFB book, The Dispossessed by Ursula K. Leguin, a few minutes ago. Great book. It was published 50 years ago, and it still reads as if it is commenting on the contemporary world. I good sign of it being a powerful work of art. The book is set on the two worlds of Annaris, and Urras; worlds which share a common people, but very divergent ideologies. Annaris’s  being anarchy, and Urras—capitalism. On Annaris the populace pursues their own interests as long as they do not harm others, each of the citizens taking turns with the tasks which benefit all by either volunteering or by lottery. Everybody is taken care of during hard times, and everyone works to help each other survive on a very hostile world. While on Urras people are caught up in the manipulative games, which help the individual get ahead. The planet is divided into competing countries which are often at war, while the countries are built upon a caste system where there are owners and workers. This is not to say that Leguin sees one as a paradise and the other as despicable. Annaris has over time lost much of its revolutionary drive and there are cliques of special interests who resist change and innovation, where on Urras, the governments have, through strict control, managed to create a world of beauty if not equality. In addition to the obvious political themes of communalism and capitalism, the book has strong currents of feminist thought, class, science and creativity; loyalty, love and friendship. It was a fun read full of ideas and possibilities which I like in Science Fiction. 

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  • woke

    by

    agency, awareness, frustration, oblivious, poetry, privilege, snarky

    if

    —as when each night

    i close my eyes and pretend

    to be asleep so that

    i will fall asleep—


    i pretend

    to close my mind

    to the injustice

    in the world

    will it cease to exist? 

    (May 5, 2026)

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  • Twins

    by

    aging, borders, liminal, poetry, sleepless, tired

    “How have you made division of yourself?”

    —W. Shakespeare, 12th Night, 5.1

    I lean over

    my sleeping body

    run my hand

    down my arm

    to wake myself—


    I feel my presence

    above me—

    -time to wake up-

    I stir reluctantly,

    but I am so tired.


    Still I wake enough

    to find myself

    -crawling back into bed-

    once again alone

    and return to sleep.

    (May 3, 2026)

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  • reading is difficult

    by

    books, hubris, Language and Literacy, literacy, poetry, process, reading

    to decipher with speed

    from repetitive marks

    in a collection of pages

    one clump of sounds

    and their relationship

    to another sequence

    centimeters apart

    then reconnecting

    them all with ease to other

    clusters arranged in similar

    fashion across hundreds

    and hundreds of pages

    and between hundreds

    and hundreds of books

    often returning to see

    again in unseen ways

    the meaning change

    in deeper and more 

    complex manners

    for the entirety 

    of one’s short life

    and even so one

    still feels as if 

    one knows nothing

    nothing at all

    (May 2, 2026)

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