Moving Day

My son moved out today…

He packed the clothes he would need,
the books he wanted near,
his favorite mementos,
and said goodbye to his dog.

He hugged his sister, his mother,
and me,
setting his sights on new chapters and grand
excited by the anticipation
of great things to come.

While we are not sure what to do,
other than pet the dog
and avoid the empty room
at the end of the hall.



Filed under Poetry

Warhol Questions

I wonder if Jacqueline appreciated 

the seriousness of Andy’s study

of JFK’s assassination, or his 

portrayal of her life afterward?

Did Mao find the humor

in his cartoonish caricature?

Would Marilyn be secure enough 

to understand no amount of screen-

printed color could hide the glamour?

Is Campbell’s appreciative of the massive

amounts of free advertising?

Did Valerie know her bullets would alter

the tone-focus-mood of the art

as much as they altered the body

of the artist?

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Expectations & Disillusionment in 17 Syllables

another’s heart


at least
the sunset
was nice

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Hating A Tree — An Exercise In Futility

I know hate is unreasonable,
a waste of energy and emotion,
especially when directed against
a thing which has no emotion.

Knowing the truth of this, however,
does not prevent the rise of ire and irritation
for I do well and truly despise the river birch
which resides in my front yard.

It is an ugly thing; thin, spindly branches
which droop and hang low,
falling to the lawn more often than
a disillusioned wife drops condescending criticisms.

It exhibits no pride of appearance,
none of the majesty or mystery of its
white barked cousin, its peeling and shedding
more like a quarantined severe eczema test case.

I cuss the thing daily, scowling at the scattered
twigs and branches on the lawn,
a spiteful replenishment of what I picked up
the day before. I really hate that tree.

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Why do you run

you fingers through

the fire?

Because to know pain

is better

than to feel


at all.

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moves slow
when sought out

ever waiting
within the shadow
the master of patience

indifferent to your plight
he offers peace to the sleepless

a welcome choice when her joy no longer
brings you joy, but only lesser misery

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The End of the (Seven Bridges) Road

I think we all (of a certain age) dreamed of deciding
to go,
of following the stars
in the southern sky,
of being loved tame and being
loved wild,
of standing beneath the trees
in moss filtered moonlight.
I find trepidation in the hints of what
might lie beneath the shadows on that road.
Perhaps it is my tendency to
over think,
but what if we were to go,
what if we were to cross
the seventh bridge
and reach the end of the road
with the taste of honey
sweet on our tongues?
What if we never find it again,
or some other road
which calls the soul,
or another taste so sweet,
or stars so warm?
What if there was never
anything better,
or, perhaps more,
what if there was?

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