Poetry Thoughts and Entries


I found a beetle in the boat, laying flat on his back, wiggling his meaty, spindly legs in the air, trying to grasp something – anything – to right his shiny, swollen body.

Slowly, he stopped straining and scrambling on the carpeted floor of the docked pontoon and just lay there, little feet in the air.

He reminded me of myself when I try Pilates.


I thought, sympathetically.



I’ll sow a field with seeds

Of grass that doesn’t need cutting, and doesn’t want it, either.

Growing in soft-edged clusters laying sweet and green on the ground,

Letting itself be combed by the snakes and the rain –

Combed into cowlicks where deer may make their beds.


A Bird in the Park

I’m swimming in earth and can’t move. The trees and grass are overpoweringly green, the stones in the ground golden and blue, depending on where the sun is in the sky. In this noonday light, my skin looks more radiant than it really is, and my cheeks are warmer than in the average given moment.

I am confused, like some roots that unexpectedly exit the ground, assume they will become a tree, then become increasingly bewildered as they only form into what is known as a lump, as a sore thumb.

God, get me out of here.

A golden-crowned kinglet hops over, pecking the earth as it goes; every leaf or root with a meal, it kisses. I can move now, and step closer.

It does not run; it even comes closer, as if I have something to offer. Really, I have nothing but admiration and awe, to observe how this sphere of feathers and flight moves alongside me, and how easily it flies, yet not fleeing from me.

Do I? I do. I reach in order to tentatively touch, and with the back of my index finger, stroke the down between its wings. I have done nothing, yet everything, and I am happy.

I eventually leave, as is necessary, but I am still in the park in my mind.

It was not wrong to reach out, nor was it reproachable to touch a willing creature, but do others think the same? Do they know what I’ve seen? As far as I could tell, the bird was well, and could not have harmed me, nor I it.

Oh, how I long for things to be right and to be won.

Favorites Poetry

Story Boards

I would like to know why people paint over pine,

And conceal the grains of growth that betray

The time at which a trunk was split, at what angle it was severed,

Forming ellipses where limbs were once born – the wombs from whence they grew.


Small fry

You may be a perfectly pretty fish, but I’ll have to throw you back –

You’re not the minimum span (and I don’t have a license off the bat).

Go grow, little fish! I’ll be back for you

With your spines so splayed in fear;

I’ll let your gold-green scales gleam true

For at least another year.

Favorites Poetry

Near North

I want to encircle a house with flowers,

With vines and shrubs that cast dappled shadows on painted, flaking sideboard;

To look up at night and see stars, to feed birds that stop by in migration;

And as I lay awake, to hear the drumming hum of rain on the leaky attic roof.

NYC Poetry

Tudor Spring

Magnolia wafts over the way from the South Park’s two trees, only one of which has blossomed.

A little fat fly buzzes past my ear,

The sycamore trees are green with afternoon –

Spring is here, for a short while to stay;

Yes, summer is coming all too soon.

Sparrows spring to perch by one another as the branches beneath them bounce –

They hop higher to the top of the tree, a burst of new life they announce.

I spy a chickadee among them on the uppermost branch –

He flutters away and leads all but one, who rests for a little while longer,

The fresh budding boughs his shroud.



Flowering pea vines

Entwining their trellis,

Clinging for dear life –

I stand nearby on steps of brick,

Unaware of future strife.

Holding a wooden cooking spoon all covered in brownie batter,

My eyes linger elsewhere;

My gaze transfixed;

The brownie batter


Sapphire is out today,

Out in her great green pasture;

She plods along grazing

But in my mind, she with her grey dappled flanks

Rising, gallops far away,

Considerably faster.

Sapphire rolling beneath a cobalt sky

Frosted with an English breeze

Will forever and throughout my life

Bring me to my knees.



Second Story Scuffle

Scurrying, squeaking, scuffing the floor;

Our mice have never been this rambunctious before!

What is their dispute? What can be the cause?

Why do they maul one another with their sweet little paws?

At what moment will they reach peace?

Is it when their squeaks do finally cease?

Or will there be much left undisputed

In the land of meece?