*Originally written for Pawling Public Radio’s “America the Beautiful” poetry presentation
I lay on the land, grass tickling bare toes.
Descendants of descendants of descendants of the first ants to explore the soil
We come speaking tongues
Spanglish editions of handwritten love songs
Scribbled fiercely and flung
My wife looked out upon a single fawn
that gnawed, unaware, at the hedge
beside the rock garden on this first day
IT ALWAYS AMAZES ME HOW THE COLD, IRON GATES OF WOODLAWN CEMETERY BECKONS Continue reading Woodlawn
(with a nod to Francis Thompson)
This old, weather beaten brick house beckons us. Continue reading My Old House
THE ORANGE GLOW OF THE SUN SURRENDERS TO THE PINK AND PURPLE SKIES AROUND IT.
I HEAR THE DEAFENING THUNDER OF THE FRAGILE GLACIERS, Continue reading Alaska
If it were any other kind of debris lying in the trash, it would have lain in a stupor of lifeless glare: Continue reading Yellow and Scarlet Dahlias– All Laughing, All Sultry
THE PITTER PATTER OF JAKE’S PAWS ON THE HARDWOOD FLOORS, SHOCKS ME BACK TO REALITY FROM WHERE MY MIND REVIEWS THE KALEIDOSCOPE OF ENDLESS IMAGES THAT WEAVE THE YEARS OF MY LIFE TOGETHER IN TAWDRY Continue reading Pitter Patter