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another gift
of aging:
That abandoned basketball
half hidden in the weeds
behind the lilacs?
Just wait.
When you’re old enough,
it transforms (for a moment,
from the upstairs window,
in early gray light)
It becomes a fresh bloom
Of rare orange lilacs.

Wet Snow On Adventure Road

Early May, early morning
wet snow on adventure road
She waves, taps the horn once
and drives away
car roof covered with damp pink petals.
The softest guardians keep her company
till they dry in the sun and
take to the road themselves
Picture her then—
petals streaming behind her
flower girl for her own future

Snow Fence

rolled up snow fences
along the Eastern edge of all the fields
they wait, curled and quiet
brown sticks sleeping (furled instead of un-)
like creatures about to bloom
Winter’s last crop

Written By…

“Writing is, by definition, an optimistic act.” Michael Cunningham

Then write in the white rapids and dangling from parasails,
bungee cords, high-dive boards, a crocodile’s jaws.
Write in the middle of the jungle even as night
falls through small rustles awake in the underbrush
and a not too distant tiger roars (if tigers do,
before they pounce, about which I’m none too sure
but who will argue it in those dire, possibly final moments?)
If instead, a nightmare
wakes you in the deep dark
turn on your light and write.
If you find you can’t write, at least read something
Written by someone else, someone who felt
optimism like a chant, a spell on paper,
an invocation to bring it back
once upon a time and happily,
ever after…


Tiny, Desperate Seeds

When that seed of lack plants itself (again)
deep in your heart or your brain or even one day
when it brushes your skin,
buries itself in your tangled hair
which is every day, which is many times every day
because these seeds are more numerous than snowflakes
or dandelion fluff—floating and sturdy
but not indestructible
When deep in the night they whisper
All is lost don’t cover your ears
or try to sleep or even
drown them out with a litany of
all you ought to be grateful for.
Pull them close, those tiny desperate seeds
Pat their griping heads, hold their grasping hands,
Murmur There, there… mindless comforting sounds.
Tell them everything will be okay
Tell them everything is contained,
held and then released to leave
dreaming of the sun


Come back slowly
to the house
of your self
dust the tables, open windows
to catch the sweet breeze
of possibilities
all the slid away
during that long winter

Birthday Poem, For Lawrence Ferlinghetti

I am waiting
for a mad poet
for a Ferlinghetti
like a Lamborghini
fast and wild-haired
painted Red
to sweep through this world
and shake us all
back to wake

typewriter rodeo

custom poems on vintage typewriters

A Poet in Time

One Poet's Writing Practice

Shades of Gray - Denison TX

Photographer of Life in North TX & points beyond

Red Wolf Poems

Prompting new poems for Red Wolf Journal

Writing the Day

A Poetry Practice

Invisible Horse

Living in the moment

Rainbow Bakery

Photographing the rainbow of life