I know now, know now, the final swishthat moves my life so slowly — oh so slowlyon its way. Is a swish, a swish of the secretsilver contract made…
There is an island in my breast, all snowywith whiteness, frosted in tons of billowycoldness of pain, and hurt of a cold wind blowing…
My poetic muse has always been an alter-ego, chastising me for being too much in my head, too cerebral. Looking back over…
My love is like a red, red roseA red, red rose is sheAll day long beneath the willow boughsShe suavely swings my baby
Outdoor poetry is meant to be an expression of the natural singing spirit. Our bodies desire to burst into spring and…
On the other side of the hillI found the Queen Anne’s Laceas it swayed in the dying wind
White blew across the bluelike lucent paint on skyand one was shaped like youwith head and breasts and thigh
The first Sundayafter the first full moonafter the first equinox of the year,rise early and lean outside…
Words disjointed and drifting in the gloomlaughter muffling nearby to where we arewhile at a tilting table in the bar…
A brown leaf scraped at the window panejust when Ihad thought I had lost enough to cry.