Poems

Rain off and on all night. In the morning I sit in the dripping world. A sane bird sings the waiting day awake.

Poets write history’s pain, but not to heal wounds too quickly or too soon. Those in a hurry to abandon facts only prolong the sting of the hurt. Poets use no bandages, no casts, no slings, no gels, unguents, or ointments, they pull scabs, scratch irritations, they...

The wren, nervous at the feeder, pecks looks pecks looks picks a life seed looks for lurking jays. feeding while feeling not safe a jitter of glances

Walls flattened. Roofs ripped. Homes torn. Signs peeled from stores citing what is no longer there. Slung cows.   Flipped cars. Businesses upended. Left, futile foundations. Strewn littering bricks. A photo album snatched from its family of origin. A candy wrapper...

So many things are so many things. Is there one thing that is just one thing? If so, name such a singularity.

So limited, the alphabet, so few letters, only 26. Twenty six, for god’s sake. Can you believe it? What can be said with a maximum of two dozen plus two? Think of how much more could be said with only a few letters more. Or thoughts we could have in the noisy silence...

In the beginning, the old beginning. the first ship sailed. Then, a next beginning, a new ship, same captain and crew. A destination without rival unraveled. No arrival. Other ships have sailed. fresh starts followed by decay. Again, we begin the next beginning, new...

Sun scream, moon sob, caught between voices, earth echoes earth does not sing.

“Poems are never finished - just abandoned” Paul Valery Only write unfinished poems. To finish, a poem would need to be finite, complete in and of itself. Definitely defined. Poems are not finite, they are infinite, always done being done. The poet builds a spacious...