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The Clouds Taught Me This

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clouds taught me this
on my daughter’s birthday
one more lesson on
the nature of time

sunrise streak of orange clouds
across a bright blue sky

gone in minutes, clouds
and sky fade to grayblue

whether the clouds
or not
I was here with those colors
as they formed and as they faded
and when time changes this sky, too
one of us remembers.
Whatever sky does next
doesn’t unspool the moment
when those colors
were real

Again Today, Time

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again today, time
and I meet
Again today, I try
to cajole time into
Meaningful Dialogue
about its peculiarities.
Today, in particular,
I’d like to discuss
Childhood. Yours,
specifically. Where,
I want to ask, did that
quirky crazy-curled
little girl go? And how can it be
that the beautiful young woman
sent in her stead
doesn’t remember that little girl
as clearly as I do? Time, being time,
lets me go on about this until
the coffee grows cold and I
am late for work.

If Leaves Dream, They Dream In Color

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of last year’s leaves
hide in the pavement—
sapped of past lives
dried beyond dust
almost gone but
quiet, busy
dreaming new colors
for seasons about to arrive

What Late August Said On Its Way Out The Door

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The title of my next poem may be
In Praise Of Dawdling
but I haven’t quite
gotten around
to writing it
just yet

Language Barrier

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Once, many years ago when money was tight, you found a five dollar bill in the street. Back then five dollars was a boon, an unexpected gift from a mysterious universe.

Yesterday, I found a grimy, rain-soaked twenty on the same block. Money’s not so tight these days. You? You are long gone.

What does this all mean? Oh, the question I often ask with no hope of a Definite Answer. Maybe it means nothing at all. A careless hand, a hole in a pocket.

Or maybe it’s a message from money. Maybe money has a sense of humor. Maybe money is trying to let us in on the joke by juxtaposing these two incidents, cash in the street, years apart, needed, not needed.

What, you might well ask, what is the punchline? Only money knows. And so far, it’s not telling.

Sentimental Summer

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The rest are ready to move on.
Only the weather resists,
with many a backward glance.
The calendar page flipped
geraniums and hollyhocks grew
leggy and tattered
Bicycles and skateboards sigh in their wheels
bored with the back and forth of our street
a dozen times, just today
Sneakers are ready, and lunch bags, and pencils
Even the crayons, hesitant at first,
are shy but eager to begin.
Only the weather, sentimental and humid,
clings long and sunny to the memory of August

Define By Example

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How long glass can live
when framed in wood

The Novel Bunch

aka: The Happy Bookers

The Sketchbook


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