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Warning, In Invisible Ink

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on another day
rushing, I step on the cat
Can’t that small cat see?
Impatient with the living
is stamped all over my skin

Wax and Wane (a tanka poem)

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again, the moon wanes
or waxes, who remembers
which? It was twilight—
fingernail moon topped the pines
and I said to you, oh look

To Be Filled With Stories

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dark winter again
when wide awake in the cold
empty and ready
we fill the nights with stories—
this is what winter is for

In Local News

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not just car crashes
and winter weather forecasts
there’s quiet news, too.

Here, in this small town
tiny miracles each day
fall from the gray sky

the girl who dropped out
found her spark to try again,
came to tell me so
And Reader, I swear she was
Smiling—her shell cracked open

another looked up
paused in searching for his path
took a breath, and learned
to play the saxophone, loud.
In this bright world, new music

Unopened

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At all our abandoned email addresses
I picture piles of tiny white envelopes
accumulating on an invisible doorstep
somewhere in the universe

Sales at dress shops and book stores and bakeries
deep discounts from car dealers
announcements of concert dates in cities
where we don’t live anymore

Virtual or not— once in a while
don’t you too feel the weight of it?
The whisper sensation that all those offers,
greetings unclaimed, unwanted, unacknowledged
are huddled together, shivering
in the snow @ that abandoned address

Actual Angels Prefer Pine Trees

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is this where we dreamed up
the idea, this long custom
of holiday tree-toppers
shaped like angels?

because actual angels
prefer pine trees above
all other varieties and
have been known to perch
for hours nestled in
mountainside evergreens

prickly green needles,
sticky sap, and
needless to say,
heights
do not deter angels

They so enjoy the view
from down here amid
treetops and the tickling
sensation of evergreen—
of touching this thrumming life,
of holding on to something so
deeply rooted to this—
this fleeting, flying world

 

The Color Of This Friday

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turkey-heavy morning—
across the road, I know
someone’s awake because
the television is flickering
Over here, candles
do their own flickering
sunshine comes and goes
on the walls, greening
the deep graceful green
of the rescue fern.
Your cat stretches, sighs,
turns in her half sleep
on the warm radiator cover.
Come in—here
on this busiest shopping day of the year,
let’s rest…. Rest
not in remembering what we had
or imagining what we’ll acquire
to bring out that elusive and fleeting
Flavor of Joy. Rest.
Here it is,
come round again. Peace
amid strife. Calm
in the middle of craze. This moment
this small sunny oasis in the hours
of this, our given day.

The Novel Bunch

aka: The Happy Bookers

The Sketchbook

MOSTLY MONTREAL, MOST OF THE TIME

Red Wolf Prompts

I came to where you were living, up a stair. There was no one there.--John Ashberry, "The New Higher"

typewriter rodeo

custom poems on vintage typewriters

A Poet in Time

One Poet's Writing Practice

Writing the Day

A Poetry Practice

Invisible Horse

Living in the moment

leaf and twig

where observation and imagination meet nature in poetry