March 15, 2018


The old tin rooster on the shed
waits patiently to sing its song.
The trees are quiet, wind is dead.
Soon dawn will break – it won’t be long.

The air is calm, the sky is red,
but perched up high for all to see
without a wink of sleep our friend
maintains his outpost rigidly.

The breeze begins to cross the plain.
It starts up gently, then it grows.
The stoic, weathered weathervane
without a warning stirs and crows.

October 13, 2017


The darkened forest is so bare;
the fallen leaves are everywhere.
Wind whistles through the lonely trees—
they twist and turn with graceful ease.
An aging man walks slowly there
amidst the sharp and frigid air.
He slows his gait, then stops his stroll.
On him the years have had their toll.
He taps his cane against the ground.
Old Man Autumn’s come around.

June 3, 2017


The cowboy lights his cigarette
and deep in silent thought
He questions how much sleep he'll get
with the sun and soil so hot.

The parched earth is ablaze,
and the stench of muck is sweet.
The oxen blindly stare and gaze
amidst the scorching heat.

The horses stomp their angry feet.
The cowboy wipes his sweat.
He hears the cattle's heavy beat
and puffs his cigarette.

It's evening now.
The coyotes howl,
and the sun begins to set.
The cowboy sighs and with his lamp
he lights another cigarette.

May 13, 2017


I think I’d rather be a shoe
and find another shoe to woo.
The reason should be clear enough;
although like people shoes will scuff
it’s very seldom that I see
a single shoe that's lonely.

May 8, 2017


Under the massive old oak tree
they carved their names for all to see.
The years went by and there it stood;
a mighty tree in a heavy wood.
The lovers very soon were wed
and underneath this tree they led
a very peaceful, happy life.
He was her husband - she his wife.
Time went by and they grew old.
Through cruel winter's bitter cold
the giant oak will safely keep
and calmly watch them as they sleep.

March 15, 2016


On marble steps stained deep and dark
the senate slew Rome’s patriarch,
stabbed as if within a play
beneath the theater’s arch.
Oh, rue the day! “Et tu, Brute?"
Beware the Ides of March!

September 16, 2011


It was the bottom of the ninth and neither side was winning.
Each member of the pent-up crowd was anxious for the inning.
The batter smiled smugly as he stepped up to the plate;
his eyes were fierce and focused and his fingers burned with hate.
He doffed his dusty baseball hat and gripped his trusty bat,
and then with poise and confidence he cleared his throat and spat.
The pitcher's brow was sweaty as he dug into the mound
and then he threw a slider which then sank and struck the ground.
Then came the harsh resounding cry which ruled it a ball;
let there be no mistaking that it deeply thrilled us all.
The seasoned pitcher threw the next ball just above the plate
and number seven swung so mightily – but just too late.
But as each patron held their breath and perched upon their seat
there came the crack of bat and ball; the thud of running feet!
A heartfelt cheer then shook the stands as Seven ran to first;
while two thousand hands applauded, our foes began to curse.
He thundered on towards second – and then he ran to third.
He was a bolt of lightning and the fans a startled herd.
The cannonball of leather he had smashed began to fall
and finally it smacked into the sand across the wall.
With a final score of five to four the flyball won the game.
The winning team went wild - and the conquered bowed in shame.

August 11, 2011


Along the shore I paced and stood
among the varying debris
and I found a piece of driftwood
which I took back home with me.

I looked out to the diamond sea
to clear my thoughts and eyes,
and finally it struck me
as a boat in a disguise.

At once I sat to whittle
and slowly I began
to carve a tiny vessel
from the block within my hand.

I stained the carving crimson
and I made a tiny oar.
Its maiden voyage has begun
with a bathtub to explore.

Fantastic as it may well seem
(perhaps a mere romantic dream)
I want to sail the world with you
in my little red canoe.

August 7, 2011


The green felt table – strewn with cards
stands in a stuffy room.
A light mist coats the darkened yards
like a layer of perfume.

The gentlemen are on the porch
weaving yarns and smoking.
Their sweethearts talk and clean the pots
and prep the next day’s cooking.

The clock strikes ten. The womenfolk
can hear the talk and smell the smoke.

It has been a bad year for corn.

August 3, 2011


Only the lonely can fathom the depths,
and gaze out a window and dream while awake.
Only the lonely will dare to take steps
too risky for soldiers and writers to take.

The concerns of the lonely are ships lost at sea,
whether drowned in the waters or cast out above.
In the sea there is something that sets captives free –
it is only the lonely who learn how to love.

The lost and forgotten have combed every beach
in the hopes of unearthing a treasure to keep.
Whether shells or a rock, there is something for each –
a secret washed up by the thundering deep.

The abandoned resemble an old drifting log
which must sail alone upon treacherous waves
not unlike an experienced sturdy sea dog,
the torrent and squall which he fearlessly braves.

Though the journey is rough it is well worth the trip.
There is one last reminder I wish to impart:
hark this somber farewell before boarding the ship;
the restless are truly the lonely at heart.

August 1, 2011


Life’s a flattened Good Year tire.
It's a Jewish woman restrained by wire.

It's a raging fire
in cold December.
The windswept snow
obscures its glow.

It's a black man hanged up high –
a silhouette against the sky.

It's the passion of a love that burned
although that love was not returned.

It's addiction to escapes.
It's a box of old keepsakes.

It's a mother's star.
Her son's at war.

Life is a scar.

(My friend Ali drew this picture.)

July 30, 2011


The lone axe rang true
with each solid thud.
It neatly sank through
the blocks of thick wood.

The woodsman stood up,
then slowly bent down.
his arms made a cup
and he gathered it 'round.

He loaded his cart
and went on his way
with a weight in his heart
that he had to obey.

July 27, 2011


I can still recall her blue dress sweeping through a field of hay
and there’s nothing that can drive the charming thought of her away.
As I watched, the cool, gentle breeze whisked up her flowing hair
and I stood entranced and gazed with wonder as she walked on air.

On a rusty gate I waited for our eyes perchance to meet,
but she fancied that she was alone amid the gilded wheat.
So I simply stood adoring as she donned a daisy crown
and I looked upon her walking in her regal, denim gown.

And the wisps of golden sunshine whipping ‘round her pretty face
made me certain – made me sure – that I was in the perfect place.
There is nothing I had seen before and nothing I’ve seen since
half as lovely as that girl on the far side of the fence.

July 25, 2011


Weary and alone I stand
evoking tender moments passed,
deep in thought and head in hand.

Forever loving thoughts withstand
the waves of torment and hold fast.
Weary and alone I stand

Recalling beaches, softly tanned,
on which the lovers kissed the last.
Deep in thought and head in hand

I clear my thoughts as blown like sand.
The final tide has gone. Alas!
Weary and alone I stand,

looking o’er the lonely strand
and on toward seas of colored glass,
deep in thought and head in hand.

For lovers never understand
that nothing’s here that’s here to last.
Weary and alone I stand –
deep in thought and head in hand.
I hold it true, whate'er befall;
I feel it, when I sorrow most;
'Tis better to have loved and lost
Than never to have loved at all.
- Lord Alfred Tennyson, In Memoriam