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cornfield road

this road through cornfields—
miles of stalks taller than men
Tomorrow, all this
will be plowed fields
ready for another season

morning moon

morning moon
through birch tree branches

two old friends
who never tire
of each other’s company


low fog over the Berkshires
jet contrail dissolves
above me,
above the lake
and the calling crows

crooked pine
at the entrance
to the yoga retreat—
a signboard without the complications of alphabet
Look, it says—our paths
are alike
not straight
but ever towards

box of cups

cardboard box of cups
left by the side of the road
rainstorm fills them all

thank you note for all the gifts

rainy morning
coffee on the porch
last of the blueberries
in the blueberry colored bowl

car in the driveway, ready to go
your necklace hangs from the mirror
blue agate oval
glued-on circle of tiny pearl beads

reading the the local magazine
from the closest city
happy DIY article about an old student

weeks of travel ahead
to be with friends
and beauty

right this minute
propped on the edge of this covered porch
rain falls straight down, steady as a painting
and me, here, leaning
semi-dry feet
and a head full of
so many stories


when my daughter
speaks to me in that too patient voice
voice I know
voice I likely taught her
voice I use on my own father
voice I hear as condescending
Something in me shrivels

Here we are, again
Me with little packages of words
Ill-fitting for the occasion
Or wrong for the weather.

After so many years
You would think
I’d be better at packing
Better at choosing the right
words. But no.
Always too many
Wrong mood
Wrong color
What’s next?
Keep practicing
Or stay home and
Be quiet.

garden at night

deer came in the night
ate all the green beans
and tiny zucchini from
my next-door neighbor’s
garden so when
the woodchuck who lives under
the shed where my next-door neighbor
on the opposite side
stores metal things with gears
and wheels, also pieces of wood,
random lengths of siding and
one woodchuck or possibly
a whole woodchuck family—
When the woodchuck waddle-scurried
his foraging self across my lawn
to the feast next door only tomatoes
were left and those are not
his favorite.

a good goal

Gone, again and why
do I think I’ll remember the image, scent,
overheard perfect line,
words that hopped in the car on the highway
to keep company with the others, gathered
like wildflowers on that dirt track,
the steep hill, the long coast down
the other side.

Was it something the waitress said?
Skinny, tattooed, overwhelmed by the crowd
of hungry tourists?

No. It was that tableful of theater people,
The one woman who talked so Loud-
Trained to project her voice—she said,
“It’s my goal in life to bring horror to live theater.”

How Singular, Spectacular,
Goals are so

So here’s mine: to remember
that memory
isn’t to be trusted.
Write it down. Background noise
of all delicious varieties
steal away the right words.
If I remember nothing much,
Remember this. Write it down
To see what I saw.


high wind tips the striped hammock
to the ground where it
stays for days. Our bodies
holding books
holding puppies
holding only long afternoons
would save its gentle sway but
I was
busy I was elsewhere
and the hammock fell

wheelbarrow, robin

morning rain, robin
on the handle
of the rusted wheelbarrow

wheelbarrow I found
in my father’s barn
before he sold that big country place
(loneliness, dementia)

I dusted off generations
of spiderwebs
painted it red
because Williams

now it lives in my yard
where it is frequently
Admired. People can tell
it’s led an interesting life
comfortable in its skin
and happy to be a perch
for searching the rain-soaked yard

The Novel Bunch

aka: The Happy Bookers

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 Ronka Poetry Practice Since 2014

Invisible Horse

Living in the moment

Leaf & Twig

Where observation and imagination meet nature in poetry.