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Static-filled morning:
Static in our hair, sweaters, socks
even our words
(especially our words)
give off sparks.
We walk through the hour
stepping carefully
shocking each other awake

Lesson Plan For Today

Use every day to
teach yourself or
better, Wake Up
Ready to let
the day teach you.
Oh its lesson plans
are tattered from use
and look haphazard
held together as they are
with bits of twine and yellowed
cellophane tape
pages softened by repetition
This is an old,old lesson from a
teacher who remembers your
grandparents and their grandparents
but as a unit of instruction
a day is the perfect length
And if it is a day when the student
is sick or lazy or distracted
No matter. There is a new lesson
just over the horizon, almost here
Wake up ready to let this day be
The One to Teach you something

Your Soul Is A Falcon

“Your soul is the king’s falcon,” sings Rumi
but here on the ground we are yelling at a cat
to get off the table, packing lunches,
untangling power cords, checking the forecast,
drowning out the soft classical guitar play list
fading the falcon into the background
on a groundswell of ordinary morning irritation.
Stop, breathe, remember who we are
each of us, as we both soar
and search for clean socks

Secret Pond

Snow built a new landscape in the night.
Only natives recognize it now —
that wide white field?
It isn’t a field at all
but a frozen pond
favored by the geese.
How many similar secrets
does every village hold?
Every village (every heart)
waits for spring to thaw and show
what’s been hidden in the cold


Someone—a deer, a dog,
A small moose, a snow mermaid
Someone bigger than a bunny
In no hurry at all
Crossed the yard while we slept
Left a trail visible only from above
Masked by snow at ground level.
I study it from the upstairs windows
Like so much else noticed in quiet
This sounds as if it’s a metaphor
When it is just this:
The snowy truth

The Future Searches For A Reader

About every single thing in his poems,
she shook her head and said:
We don’t have those anymore.
trees, leaf mold, mountains
seashores, minutes, cows
weekends, candles, dictionaries
llamas, meadows, coffee mugs
All gone, now.

In The Middle Of The Storm

more time passes
I read another poem
(a tiny treatise on impermanence)
while the candles burn
the furnace chugs along
tea fills the mug steam rises
our whole house hums
everything committed to its
vital ordinary work
the walls and roof
hold steady the windows
windows who rattle a bit
humble and ecstatic in the throes
of framing this fierce wind


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