The sound along the ground,
Abreast of the sound, down
Level with sea bubbles foaming,
Down with sand crabs scuttling
Is hissing, bubbling,

And should you ever lay prone
Below the hissing wave line
And hear these sounds so low,
Along the sandy weathered space,

And feel the cool upon your face,
You’d hear the whisper which does
Not ask of us who beside her,
Lies and looks on high to bluer

At gulls who push and shove,
And cry their high pitched wails,
Demanding bits of morsels tossed,
And in cacophony the peace
Is lost,

We cannot hear the waves at play
Demanding stand unless they pound
Us down into the roil and under
Neath a foaming boil we scrape our

Instead these sounds,
Bubbling, hissing, splishing
Notes, sing to us a rhythmic
Of low angelic notions,

Proximity to the bed of waves,
The sound print of this ocean,
Does crest and fall upon our ears
And from this unique point
Of view,

The sound unfolds as gentle
Or spoken in another tone,
A whispered poem for times
We knew

Contained within the listening
Our fondest memories
In tow
Of sunset shimmer

Long afternoons spent watching
Far horizon,
Deep blue line awash in
Golden splendor
Time after time after time.

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A small depression


Out back there is a cool spot in the yard.
On fall nights the air pools there leaving a
Misty white sheet draped like

Those American flags on the boys boxes
Coming home from some far nation,
Solemn, cold, dark

Faces of those men saluting
And I think of that cool spot sunken
Because I did not want to walk down

The newly turned ground from burying
Him, somehow it felt wrong, to trample
There in that moment.

I never went back, and nature came and went
Rains and such, then depression sunk,
And stuck, hence the pool of

Quiet fog, sitting out there now as
I drain my fourth glass of liquid life
And see again and again solemn

Faces of young men in blue dress
Wondering when they might return under
A curtain of red, white and blue fog.

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Calling all cars



Little puffs of the dandelion riding spring breezes,
Maybe miles, maybe more, little spores finding new

Millenniums. Wars trodding over their minute buds,
Fallen sons choking as they grasp bloodied swords,
Then the droughts, then the floods, then the darkened

Skies blacked with locusts, still those deep roots
Hold on.
Yellow blooms carry forth the ancestry of a million

Years. A million more will come as we spin and spin
Around the yellow bloom of life giving light,
Carrying forth our own spores, looking

To find new pastures, riding the winds of time,
Over grounds trodden by horses, bloodied by

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I wrote the moon a letter
To show my affection for
Her past graces, like when
She blushed that late September
Evening as though we both knew
A secret love had been born.

Or when she winked through clouds
Blowing in with that July storm,
As the wind torn at your hair
Whipping sand along the shore as
So many angry bees against our legs.

I can confide to the mother moon
As to the state of my lost mind
Turned inside out by words and turns
On phrases, turned over and over
Until but shadows remain of orignal

Thought. Artists are mercurial to be
Sure, lost among the living, walking
Around inside out, as if living
Negatives – the dark lit and the lit
So very, very dark.

Yes, I wrote the moon a letter and
Sealed it with my kiss, perfuming
The envelop by gentle mist of peony
Blossoms; a love letter then, I suppose
And mailed it on the wings of Pegasus.

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Broken smokestacks


Washing up for dinner I thought of the old ruins,
Rusted steel twisted over concrete grown over again
With nettle,ivory thistle and honeysuckle green against
Darker shadows lurking no matter the time I would pass.

The little black dog limped into the kitchen just as
Pasta water set a boil,
Looking forlorn as though she had been into those shadowed
Crevices underneath broken smokestacks and found destitute

Rabbits eaking out their living chewing dandelion blooms,
Longing for suburban gardens which gave good cover because
Part time caretakers did not take care of their once hopeful
Plantings and those same milkweed thistles crawled over.

I asked the little black mongrel of her wish for this
Evening of solitude. She stared up blankly against my
Withering gaze, trying to filter the existential implication
For my line of questioning. Normal. Not normal. Hunger.

Often I find my stomach in knots thinking of that dead lot,
With it’s cold fencing, useless anyway, holes and poles
Flattened long ago for teens to smoke their weed and laugh
And grope in those dark shadows, finding love or something like it.

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Bees and art

Bees are wanderers, but only so far as flowers
Which nourish their incessant whizzes,
By reciting poems composed for bees
In spring meter.

Whether they understand intricacies of peony
Lineation or just pretend to be
Buzzing over sublimation of impulses

A great mystery in knowing their choices,
For daffodils or daisies,
Roses or rhododendron, hyacinth
Or Hibiscus.

Yet, even on their high trails among tulip
Poplars, towering in Sunday skies,
Bees hear the structured
Recitations and wonder

If metaphor is properly placed,
And marvel as they buzz and buzz
At metrical patterns more

Than their own regurgitations,
And by this frantic puzzling we know
They still have not an artist’s
Heart encapsulated

One single concept of expression,
Because the motherland demands
A certain droning labor
Ignorant of marvelous beauty.

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Aires hung there dimly as we smoked,
The dark night luminescent with fireflies
And jasmine perfuming fat summer air.
The Ram I said, the Ram as though I knew
All about it, that low, homely group
Of far away stars, no more a Ram
Than the commercials bleated.
My dad – he knew about a Ram,
Walking his drunken old legs over
Rocky slopes strewn with cacti,
Winded from thin air far higher than
His delta homeland.
He told of a Ram standing not two
Hundred yards, cliff side.
“I could have shot him, but he
Looked straight at me, and I thought
About the long walk down dragging
His carcass and I laughed.”
I always remembered that walk,
Those cactus.
That Ram was the real Aires
Dimly lit and plain, flat
Along the far night sky.

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