Newer Poems

I’ve started adding my poems to the site. A few at a time. Please come back from time to time and see what has been added.



Once it comes for some
it never ends.

It’s an old sweater
wrapped more than worn

seasonal only if you venture
out on warm days.

It is the unmade bed
because that’s the way he liked it

ready for morning naps
or afternoon siestas

a Spanish tradition
he adopted along with the mistresses.

You wonder if they grieve.

If you visited the park
would you recognize

the cardigan
you gave him for Christmas

And later he swore
it must have gotten up

and walked away.



Like She’s Something

I never heard of Conley
she hadn’t either
until she got there
and then she’s telling everybody
she’s in Conley
like it’s something.




There appears to some
to be a man in the moon
though I have never seen him.

I am happy enough
to see the moon.

To some they see ghosts
or accept the flimsy evidence
of spirits moving amongst us.

I am content with the breeze.

I have however seen
the red-tail hawk
perched in our live oak

And though I have never
seen him swoop
or dive

Neither have I seen
our marsh rabbits
this year.



Three Things She Hated

The word “cunt”
or an unrhymed poem.
A philanderer.

And what she loved was:

A Harvey Wallbanger.
“Gone with the Wind.”
And the man down the street.




I have always loved notebooks
and pens.

Sometimes I have loved pens more.

I am not sure
you can be a poet
without a love

of pencil and paper,

a novelist perhaps
but no poet.




Rationed Grace

A little at a time
sometimes seems
like Chinese water torture.

I want to be waterboarded
with Grace

Scared shitless
by the Holy Ghost
(not “spirit,” I want
the real thing),
Until I can’t breathe.

Then save me
from my greed.


Suicide without Explanation

                                     After Manuel Banderia’s “My Last Poem”

No one ever asked
about a note

everyone knew
he had plenty
of reasons
to pull the trigger.

And some of us
who had managed
to survive his living,
— Say it! –




How Great Your God
 After Simon Weil

Who’d think nothing
of loosening Lucifer
on an unsuspecting world.

How then to tell
whether it’s Him
or the Other

Who is bashing the skulls
All over
the book of Psalms.


The Wrong Side of the Bridge

you wake up first
as the sun slips out
of the waves
with a definition
of burnt orange.

You go to bed late
because there are chores
associated with being
a whipping boy
who would prefer
being a prince.

But you notice
the difference mainly
when the sirens sound:
they always start
on the other side
and grow louder
and louder
as they cross the bridge.



Before Bees

Before there were bees
There were magnolias

That scent
Before there were noses.

There was a blossom
Before there were eyes

And a stem before
There were feet
To stand on.

Before there were bees
Snails pollinated the flowers

That sprang
from wind-carved crevices
that howled

Of a chemistry
To rival Mozart.




know one true direction
though are not blind
to the honeysuckle
hidden by wisteria

or the hint
of confederate jasmine
in the breeze that wants
to carry them away.