Morning Ritual

Morning Ritual

In the damp winter months by the sea

where you are comforted by rain

I awaken well before dawn

usually chilled by the air –

insulated as much as possible

by shirts and undershirts and sweaters

under a robe –

and crank-up the heat.

My mind slowly drifts from puzzling dreams

vaguely remembered –

Darkened by the night of the sea.

So it’s time for caffeine.

The strongest of them all –

a mug of espresso made on the stove-top –

Time to sip away dark moments

and prepare for the Sun

When the forecast calls for rain.

A morning such as this will not deter the fisherman with a spear, or the old man taking his final steps on our shores, while a stranger stumbles into town, with purposeful gait, the weary traveler, suitcase in each hand, and heads to sea.


Squeezing Ink From A Pen

Squeezing Ink From A Pen

As I send away the past

While in the air

And welcome tomorrow –

I know.

Everything must go to the file:

Lessons Passed and Failed

Before you can pass through

The gate of enlightenment.

The gates of the Sun.


And paste a new Vision

To the wall.

The Painter


Making NEW Words. CALL for entries

I have a stash of them. 

But I’m too lazy to go get them 

Even though they’re at my fingertip.  

If only I had known. 

The Odyssey of Invisibility: The Weather

Sunday Afternoon

It’s so boring being a poet.
It’s boring to sit on
the wings of imagination, waiting,

Carving keys to doors
fixed on urns, always
slipping into wrong rooms,

Breeding farms of resolution in midair,
still hoping to fly to the moon, some day,
but the weather keeps changing.

March 1983


Where Are My Ear Buds! Oh.

It was one of those days …

When you got too much going on up there, and not enough sense of the world, outside of there, the 3-dimensional one — ‘ya know, the one I’m talking about, this one here — when the wires get crossed — and you start to get lost — when you start to rhyme, then ‘ya start to screech, cause ‘ya never did intend to rhyme — whether it’s up there or here, when you start to ask questions — you shouldn’t have to ask, when ‘ya start looking for things, you don’t need to be looking fer,  going up and down stairs, —

If only things were just a bit more copacetic, but they’re not  —

And you’re tickled to discover

When you see you’re still here —



And you jus’ can’t help but smile at yourself.


Where Are My Ear Buds!  Oh...