Ode to the Vernal Equinox

Spring Arrived
on March 20th
at 7 p.m.
in the windbreak
of the Big Value Supermarket.
Downtown, on Main Street.

Crowded into the tiny break
on the cold concrete floor
packed tight around soda machines
and gumball vendors,
were row upon row
of full-bloomed pansies
in flimsy plant trays.
Spring pre-packaged
in disposable, black plastic.

fat, wet snow
piled on cars and roads
and numb post-work
It was twilight.
Roads were treacherous.
No one was in the mood
for flowers.

The blooms swayed
as electric doors
gusted winter with the passing
of each snow-flecked customer
and sat
each looking,
for all the world,
like a young girl stood up
on the evening
of her very first date.

(March 1997)

A poem in honor of the eclipse

Bodies in Motion

Me and my baby
view the eclipse.

Two luminescent bodies
past and future
along a sweet
bisecting line.


Decline by Charles Bukowski

naked along the side of the house,
8 a.m., spreading sesame seed oil
over my body, Jesus, have I come
to this?
I once battled in dark alleys for a
now I'm not laughing.
I splash myself with oil and wonder,
how many years do you want?
how many days?
my blood is soiled and a dark
angel sits in my brain.
things are made of something and
go to nothing.
I understand the fall of cities, of
a small plane passes overhead.
I look upward as if it made sense to
look upward.
it's true, the sky has rotted:
it won't be long for any of
from The Olympia Review - 1994

The Age of Black Swans (a poem)

in an outlier age
every swan jet black
nests on a sphere skewed extreme.
each day a thousand year rain
drowns misery in empty
bloated bellies,
washing over hearts
that will not wear
and cannot break.
signs and wonders
thick as smoke
we choke, waiting
for one
that can never come.

Signs and Wonders (found)

I think everyone is busy right now. At the moment, I have just enough energy and time to keep running in place.

But lately I’ve been pondering Claire, who is a very old girl in doggie years.  She was a young stray who decided to camp on our doorstep a little over 12 years ago.

She was a roamer then and still is to a certain degree. One summer’s day in 2000 she walked across the shoals of the nearby river. And as it happened there was an accident on the river and they had to raise the level so rescue boats could search for the victims. She couldn’t come home.

But the story had a happy ending. Which became the basis of this poem,  published in Her Mark 2002 Calendar, Chicago, IL

Signs and Wonders (Found)

Quadruped Persephone
crossing the River
Given that you lack
a mortal sense of time,
it is no wonder
that 2 weeks would stretch
into the half year.

Your companions
on the other side,
our counterparts,
by quarter century
kept you.
And because what transpired
between you
cannot be spoken
we are left with
an ineffable mystery.

Our Orpheus
in this mongrel mythology,
journeyed in his blue Toyota pickup truck
to reclaim you from
a sunburned Hades
who seemed earthbound
in his bibs
and feed cap.
You returned to us
in full flower,
fat and sleek as a
summer seal.

You seemed disoriented
that first day.
And I wondered to myself
as you traveled the long way home,
you made
that most human mistake
of turning over your shoulder
and looking back.

Starving Department: Media Haiku and Senyru

Published by Starving Department : News and reviews for people who don’t have time for this shit.

forbidden to eat.
salmonella is the snake.
eggs, the perfect fruit.

This morning – if I could speak dog

Yes, I realize we are a pack.
I honor that.

And I know this dim,
mist-grey morning is perfect
for chasing deer
who have lost
the lateness of the hour.

Or raccoons,
by yummy earthworms,
forced out
in soaking rains.

I realize smell
hangs heavier;
lingering on days like this.
And the world as you know it
is perfumed with promise.

Thank you,
for never once considering
leaving me behind;
for your patience
as I putter.

Because we both know that
if I could,
I would shake off
this binding human skin
and run with you.


Inside the sunlit cafe,
I hear you

I look to see you
from the corner of my eye
but all I find are
shadows and ash.

(Summer 2007)

Flying Home: A found poem

This trouvaille was written in the status line of the Facebook Page of E.M.M. It has a sense of both the comfort and melancholy of coming home.

Tuesday eveing, on my way to san jose,
I felt like i was chasing the sun.
Flying home tonight,
I feel like I’ll be racing the snow.
It makes me smile.

Found Poem: Winter in the Collapse

It’s winter. The ground is as hard as an investment banker’s soul.

An evocative trouvaille. But, in my opinion, it needs a little oomphf.

So I reworked it a little. For your consideration:

It’s winter.
The ground is cold and hard.
An investment banker’s soul.

Original poem entitled: What did you expect, job growth? found at Democratic Underground Stock Market Watch by Po_d Mainiac

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