This page will have some variety of my poetry.




Mind is emerged

with outside coming in

flowing through eyes

through mouth

It falls upon Wonder

seeks to comprehend


Who are these people

they smile

they tickle me

they leave…

Heart becomes a seeker

calling out to Creation;

Come to me

stay with me

let me know you


Now it is time

moments of being

moments of wanting

time for wonder and laughter

a time for pleasure

for waiting

and for pain…

A script for imagination

one for satisfaction

and one so big

I can not see it all;


As if in a movie

characters develop

situations evolve

all the while

rituals trap time

experience is screened

rules are revealed

where pattern and action

surround my movement

while others tell

what it all means…

Childhood remains

behind today’s curtain

with moments never leaving

relationships gathering

dust in time

standards are valued

as mind and heart

try to figure out

what happened

what will be…


its sublime purity

its clear anchor

these gifts of Being

get lost in the shuffling

need and want confusing

experience and expectation


time seemingly outside

leaving life behind…

The simple art of Presence

its silent overflowing knowledge

overruled by trying to get

by needing to have

by always wanting more…

I am so alone

amidst all this connection

this overflowing Creation

and still the self demands

something else

to become satisfied

with illusion.






My poetry is not in any one particular style, mostly free verse and the occasional odd rhyme. Almost all of an autobiographical/spiritual/political/or meditative-reflective kind.

I have won a few poetry prizes (state poetry society’s national contest), when once upon a time I entered a few contest. I imagine I have well over a thousand poems.

BARE ESSENTIALS (from last millennium)

You could have been there at the Great Wall
looking up and wondering why.
Or on Easter Island shaping stone
looking in, then up, then in.

If not self-deceived in ego grandeur
you might have spun prayer wheels
burnt sage to heal the depth of air
may have found yourself deaf and dumb
your only sea being that of touch
(How smells carry oceans!)
It could have been you there
left alone in the midst of everything
parents gone
their ways never conveyed.

You cannot deny you are there
looking beyond human history
no institutions to chain this path
called upon to speak for known life.

But if you are true you must admit
not only that you are forever naked
and called upon to be on your way
but that no amount of added weight
can clothe you enough in all weather.
You must be reduced to the elements
to dust and water and infinite mystery.
You must be brought back to the sea
to walk upon the shore of a fresh planet.

Look at the mountains, the rocks
filled with fissures and cracks without reasons why:
they must be invited in untouched
unadulterated by assumptions, beliefs, and faith.
Bring them in holy in all their presence
their branches full and bending.
Take them in to their completion.
This is the outside of your soul,
this is your church before collusion.

Reduce yourself to the ground
to the only rock of redemption.
You are now here
you belong to the answer
it waits upon your experience

poised to burst into the world.

Sow yourself into mixed seed
be planted within each sphere
pour into yourself and spill over.
Let the heart beat strong
let this be the rhythm
life overflowing from you because you are here.
It is you here among galaxies birthing earths
placing you here to reach through the wind.

Reduce yourself to bare essentials.
Know the inside of who you really are
lay down beneath the thunderstorm
drink of the fire of life.
Then come to be a friend
flood to your neighbors, their deserts sing welcome.
Cry from the mountains to the unforgiving flatness
then speak of Creation–
Music coming from the cracks in the walk
life calling through the blistered paint.


Here are a random collection, just picked out of the other computer as I happened to open them.


My cracked fingers
pull up another weed
something that was just living
in its little place now a hole.

But I have designs
notions of what will be
what is becoming
I’m dreaming of
more dramatic colors
creating a wedge
a hedge for a change of scene
a new curtain to reveal
other possibilities than the given.

This is life
eating living things
paving over them
starting a new path
hoping to arrive.

I’m crawling under articulate wind chimes
this particular one
mellow and rhythmic
with a sense of order
and surprise.
Strangely weeding out noise and nothingness.

Those hectic gold finches
stationed on top of the mesquite
are still as ornaments singing away
They may know I’m listening like the air
to this feather blown composition.
The sound does not escape my tired back
relieved that I stand up to see
but there is the hint of melancholy
just above each yellow breast.

It may be my interpretation
that I am hearing,
my groveling stance
uplifted by a knee on the ground
in a place to avoid child flowers
This music lifts me up
to marvel at a living song
between the branches and bells
the smartness and effort
to create a soulful vibration.

Born of the thorn of thistles
littering the ground
under the netted finch feeder
a small hole positions itself silently
waiting for its invisible mouse
silent as underground gold
richly waiting
in its small palace.

Of no consequence

Who knew?
You cannot predict the weather
even when fudged by percentages.

The weather systems coming in last week
brought the experts to prognosticate
about a 300% chance of rain
over 6 days

This guesswork mixed with fudge means
the weather people
were not predicting the weather
but the rather
which computer model
should they pick.
But 300% translates too
at least 3 days of measurable rain
for the forecast area guaranteed
with heavy fudge rain possible
with occasional thunderstorms
the tally is in.

we got one-tenth of an inch
in about 15 minutes, period
end of the wet dream.
Amidst such assurance
I emptied out all the cisterns

Who knew?

Who knew our government would run amuck
go to war over false predictions
change the computer model
say it was really for some other climate
One you surely should expectantly like…

Somewhere the sky is crying shrapnel
a child’s leg gone
a mother maimed
and then another
all for that cup of tea
and that dictionary
on the armchair or rationalization.

No matter what is said
and what is wrong
and what is lie and violation
the clouds clear
the sun sears a bleeding sky
while experts walk as if there were
no consequence.

It has been true
for a very long time
that absent the pressures of truth
without the connectivity of heart
alienated man
would quarry the world
for himself.

Now this hole of absence
has its own embarrassment
a sense of shame
and that must then be hidden
somewhere out of sight.

The shame of this hole
is best disguised
by building a city in it.
Creating hiding places
A place where holes
could feel healthy
and at home
in their newly comfortable town.

Fill the town with light
with noise and spectacle
with all manner of things
big and tall and grand
that disguise the absence;
fame, fortune, accomplishment
bathe the ego self with
peer respect and admiration
It’s a fine day in the city
busy oh busy day and night
life is good
in the gleaming, dreaming city
of denial
where friends of denial
cannot recognize its face
nor can the passers by
notice the hole
until the water
shows its direction
on the horizon.


from dust to stone

Our wash is giving up
its gravel and sand collection
up the beaten path I made
a couple months ago
not knowing exactly why.

Two hundred wheelbarrows latter
the sand will have traveled
down our street during floods
off neighbors yards
out of gravel landscapes
rinsed in a storms wet chaos
deposited below our house
where I excavate it
wheel it up the equivalent
of two 1000 foot high rises
stopping every floor
mix it with cement
stir it
then wet it
stir it again
then shovel it
into my homemade forms.

Ideas have hardened
rain has fallen
tarps and rebar vanish
shovels and hoe
become memories
just as the level, bolts and clamps
have gone into hiding
leaving this living idea
a new walled patio
a place for
pets and plants
a sight out the French doors
at the 67th floor
lets put a plant shelf
on the first floor
the fountain gift
the sound of water
to serenade the ear
reminding of what brought us here
the journey down the road
the landing
and the mixing
that makes loose things
something to behold.


The following poem is a simple little budded sustina folding in 20 Hykus into a broken bone sonnet set into a trisected villanelle that is laid down into the shape of a dead 8, or in other words an infinity symbol, for those who did not get the dead eight metaphor. (just kidding)



Wrinkled and stained aprons
fall behind the pantry door
whose floor has seen the footsteps
of the hungry and bored

Time is forcing the hand
to squeeze words from
its collapsed toothpaste tube
the beginning and the end
drawing closer to the mouth

There were all the clouds hovering
remote in their altitude
complacent in their attitude
not giving the desert a trace
of their passing sins

Dreams were once desires
now they are shadows
of things far away
unable to touch
or return

The days pace across
the kitchen and canyons
gouging out the eyes
of those who blink unknowingly;
who will not look down

It is up to no good
this world of planning
this trick of deceiving oneself
in the name of the future
in spite of the past

Trains wander down their lonely lines
without a tail
they were the poets of industrialization
always leaving the big city
for another with something more
but it was the country
the country they loved

the clicking meter
the reliable rhyming pace
they were the lovers of the land
they were in their element there
conquering continents
but never boasting
the last car
the trustworthy one
whose card players
threw chalk to the kids
waving their hopscotch hands

trestles are left holding the last view
they frame the missing pieces
dust diminishes
forming a faithless film
erased and returned
day and day again

the bottom line
cancels the caboose
now home to railroad buffs
who bring in granite countertops
and satellite TV
to ease their suffering

We watch by our day
history fall further away
it will be parked in memories
until they are too rusted to remember
the eager gas station operator
that had the sense to check up on you
clean you windows
check you oil
now a LED display predicts
you should see the attendant
juggling the other screen savers

The bottom line
has grown like tumbleweed
thrives on desertification
It rolls with the wind
treats care and community
as if they were bare skin
waiting to RIP


Most future fiction
thus science fiction
is written with the never ending formula;
make good things go bad.

So I am beginning this vigil
into the future
wondering if anyone will step up
take up this challenge
to imagine a world and a people
wise but at peace
independent but unerringly connected
a world where threat is not the only road
to entertainment.

Science fiction seems to be a prisoner
to the assumption that we are not interested
unless we know someone will surely die
oddly and shortly
no lovey dovey ever afters!


We have the constant cowboys and Indian scenarios
where our view of who is savage
is redeemed by their merciless and timely defeat
the ones where our victory at the very end
is seen to be only temporary.

I have a transitional patch
for the science fiction predicament.
are the intergalactic reality show.
“They” will not be contacting us any time soon
we are too entertaining to ruin the show
so they laugh however they do
slap their knees or whatever they are
in parking lots behind the moon
or in those small spheres they park
here and there
where they divert image and information
360 degrees around.

Oh yea!
“They” have surround sound all right
and we
are the slapstick reality flick
commercial free
on 24-7
up in heaven.

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