Poetry & Prose

The ocean is full of rain. The rain is full of ocean. Yet, I can distinguish one from the other. rain falls, waves roll, toward vertical or horizontal shores.

At age twelve, I wanted to be a poet. What does it take, I wondered? To be a poet. A real poet, I mean. One with dirt on his shovel to dig. Uncovering.  

The past is not set, it unsettles. The past adheres to the present, as the present gums up the future.  

Corollas nearing Mustangs, Mazda’s tailing Infinities, a Lincoln  passed by a beat-up Ford each precisely spaced in time; big rigs, SUV’s, sedans, minis, motorcycles, speeding south through radar on interstate I-75. On the curve, the cloverleaf, the exit ramp, the...

In sacred memory of the murdered millions International Holocaust Remembrance Day 1/27/2023 I would like to believe the Holocaust never happened and except for the overwhelming weight of evidence, I could. I would like to believe the Holocaust never happened,...

The purpose of this poem is to prevent you from thinking about a rhinoceros. What are you trying not to see? A word or an animal. What real is really there?   A real word? A real animal? A real word representing a real animal.

We have vocabulary; utilitarian utensils. multipurpose tools. Swiss army knives. But do we have language, lavish letters, sensuous sounds, words licked by the loving tongue, lifting worlds from concealment.  

We have words for spoon and shovel. If we had a spoon or a shovel what would words be?

The things we can’t say, we don’t say. Would we be better off saying? Interpretation comes into play. Motivation comes into play. Priorities come into play. Politeness comes into play. The thickness of skins. Longing for transitory tranquility, do we reveal...