Old Love’s Sonnet
We had it made, my love, and do you think,
When looking back, it could be working still?
Well, thank you, dear. I take that potent drink
Which may protect me from this sudden chill.
I do remember being young and sure,
Category / Poetry
It’s not as though I dislike eternal summer
I love the clamor of young voices shrieking
as they play in and out of the turquoise square
which shimmers where the sun excites it.
There is sensuality in sand running through
my toes, my foot a timer for the speed
with which the sun moves.
The Letter
No, the bad news hasn’t reached me yet,
though my body’s been preparing for it.
We’ve come a long way from the Pony Express.
Still, the distances have been challenging
to cross, the obstacles to overcome—
childhood, some bruises and broken bones,
Faustian Bargain
I dreamt the laptop in our bedroom
only achieved its stupendous power
with the help of demons that, of course,
exact their price. In my science
fiction dream these beings imperceptibly
Candle Ice
Candle ice slips in sheets off the shelf
over the river where it sneaks out into Lower
Tangle. Small grayling gang the shallows
for what floats by, old lake trout hover
in deeper water for stray unwary grayling,
and our waders double as overgrown
Misfit
When champagne is needed,
I suggest cod liver oil:
in a string quartet,
I am a gate-crashing tuba.
When others smile,
Continue reading… "Misfit"The Gift
It was intended to be an exercise:
eight minutes with pencil and sketch paper,
the time limit imposed
to force focus on the most important
components of design.
My brother drew
with lines so sure.
Dialogues
I walk around the living room
subvocalizing–poem composing.
My wife enters, folded laundry
in her arms. “Talking to yourself,”
The Bare Trees
It’s not summer’s greenery I love but winter’s
deciduous branches yearning upward, sky falling into them,
blue or darker blue, a star or two descending slowly, limb to limb.
Like an argument, they proceed, more often than not
complex but every iteration visible, one growing directly from the other.
First Cut
He likes to mow on Wednesday mornings
and it’s in the fifties with sun
the color of good April poems.
I hear the hum of spring at last,