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Traffic Report

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all the traffic here
is off-road—
trees proceed
at their own pace
over the hills

use caution this morning, as
conditions are a wintry mix
thin icing of white on every branch—
no sapling wants to hurry
and risk shaking off that sparkle

be awake, says the traffic report
today, your commute may be
by beauty


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Some days words linger
just out of sight and the job is
to follow—a friendly stalker
with a butterfly net of ink and paper

Other days (this day) words are at a distance—
off adventuring without so much as a postcard
or a telegram to say when they might return

I’m older now
less frantic than before
and though I’ll be happy
(Oh, come on now, words snicker—
you’ll be ecstatic)

and though I’ll be Very Happy
at the flurry of their return
I’m better than I used to be at waiting
and wondering
what souvenirs they’ll bring this time
a sand dollar, or foreign coins,
a phrase book from a language
I’ll never be fluent in

What Time Does It Open?

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reach, and reach again
for the smart phone, to look up
some knowable thing

a map, a fact, a recipe, a price—
The price for all this is absence
absence of space
of the quiet air
when something is still a mystery
space not spent on finding out
how many miles to our destination?
how big are giant squid?
how much fresh ginger to chop?
what time does it open?

The time it opens is this—
enough time to wonder
as somewhere deep a giant squid glides
if glide is, in fact, the word for what they do

The Notebook Of All You’ve Lost

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How do I choose?
After all the new notebooks
I’ve bought for the cover art,
shape or color or weight of the paper
How do I shop for this?
My wise friend’s experienced advice
is to document this
with dates and details
the sad and scary story
of how many ways
your mind and memory
are leaving you behind
How do I choose
a notebook for this—
the story of all you’re losing,
of all you’ve already lost?

Canvas and Frame

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darkness lifts
once again
bare trees
create their tangled art
branches arch into patterns—
the sky, their canvas
this window, their frame


The World Recalls Its Winter Work

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my father’s thinking fails him
again and again he forgets
while deep in the night,
and as it falls, snow
turns the landscape
to a whisper called beautiful
a comfort
while much is taken
the world recalls
its winter work


New York to India is an Eighteen-Hour Flight

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forgetfulness hides
in the globe on the table
or map on the wall
Today’s lesson starts early—
you learn the world in real time

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