Call to me

Posted on Oct 18, 2015 in Poetry, Writing

What are you saying
with your bare legs at that angle,
your knees rocking
at intervals that call to me.
Toes pointed starward.
You are music,
an angel—
A siren.

A crow, crowing

Posted on Oct 18, 2015 in Poetry, Writing

There’s a crow, crowing through
my open window,
calling to his mates.
Cars and trucks
in the distance,
the occasional motorbike.
The whole time,
I click away on keys
who know me better
than I even know myself—
some muse I’ve never met,
and yet she tells me every day
which way to think and see
the very things that’ll get me
from point A to B
in this scrawled out story.

It’s early

Posted on Oct 18, 2015 in Poetry, Writing

It’s early and
the neighborhood birds are
just pulling themselves up
by their wings
to begin their song,
having slipped down between
the twigs
and the miscellaneous things
gathered from backyards
around town
and weaved into a home.

A bee man visiting china

Posted on Nov 23, 2014 in Poetry, Writing

A bee man visiting China
talked to his dog back in Maine,
with howls and with tears in his eyes,
Over signals bounced off the moon.
The dog must’ve thought he’d come come,
That he was in the next room.
But the bee man,
He was timezones away
And he cared for the dog
more than all the tea in China;
More than all the millions
she’d stolen away.

Concentration is ended

Posted on Nov 23, 2014 in Poetry, Writing

Concentration has ended
the cart upended,
The wheels came off the bus

When I’m surrounded by tech

Posted on Nov 23, 2014 in Poetry, Writing

When I’m surrounded by tech,
By circuit boards,
Tools, testers,
By breadboards and jumpers,
It’s much like I felt as a child,
With anything of science near to me,
Or anything mechanical;
It could be a large stash of tools
Or parts filling up shelves—
But these days, I’ve morphed
This ideal, reluctantly
From trades of the hands
To those of the mind
Sufficing stockrooms
With virtual dimensions,
Having ever-diverse labels
On long-spanning shelves
Running down rooms so vast,
If you saw them,
They’d boggle your synapses.
The stock of this trade
Is sometimes jumbled,
And though everything has its place
And there’s a place for everything,
It’s not minded so much as I’d like,
With discipline;
The labelmaker is out of tape perhaps
At times
Or I press the wrong keys.

The jolly old mate

Posted on Nov 3, 2014 in Poetry, Writing

The jolly old mate
has flown in on his sleigh
while I lie in my bedroom awake.
I hear small pitter-patter
on the roof of my cabin
as cookies and milk lie in wait.
Eight tiny reindeer
touch down, as his sleigh steers
to a stop at my chimney above.
And no matter my years
The moment I hear
My heart’s filled with gladness and love.

There are sights

Posted on Nov 2, 2014 in Poetry, Writing

There are sights dragging us places,
that could flip reality
on a dime in the space of a breath.
Brushing past with long legs
in an outfit a designer must’ve chuckled to make.
There are sights that could lean
an unchecked life filled with purpose
toward utter foolishness.
Such plots
that cause one to stop
in his tracks
and live a dream of a bubble
that pops in just moments,
or in ten wasted years.
or a life gone down the tubes.
I’ve seen it in more than a few.

The parking lot lady in orange

Posted on Oct 31, 2014 in Poetry, Writing

The parking lot lady in orange
The guy selling pies
From Redemption Academy
Who talks to every soul
Who walks by,
Peddling his pies,
And pulling in a pretty girl
Or two
As he sells
Apple and pumpkin,
Gathering funds
For something.


Posted on Oct 31, 2014 in Poetry, Writing

The mist along
our crooked sidewalk,
The morbid song
of bats that wing overhead,
of the dead.
Come visit, wary kiddies,
Trick or treating
from your cities,
Bags in hand.
Come to me,
come make your stand!
And if the door creaks
Or if my black cat
across your feet,
Be brave little ones,
And don’t retreat!