New York Pause
Red on red a cardinal
flies into the red maple
stop sign red signals
STOP! I am stress tsunami
down, red on red stopped
summon ancient forces:
baby, fire, cannon,
crocodile breath, OM. A sigh
all I can manage. Continue reading Covid Diary, Tanka variations, Early May 2020
Do you hear that sound breaking through the trees?
Hush, you must listen Continue reading Sounds of the Blight
Oh My Darlin’ Quarantine
This morning I punched my shirt
I sleep in two long-sleeve tee shirts
I’m old and chill easy Continue reading Three Poems In Quarantine
The Japanese have a word for it,
the pathos of things,
Continue reading For All That Is And Yet May Be
THE STEEL STACKS SIT SILENT ALONG THE LEHIGH
AWASH IN GLOOMY GRAY CLOUDS THAT RENDER IT
Continue reading Steel Stacks
Glimpsing, glancing, looking, staring
Seeing out of focus
Continue reading I Sense My Senses
A young girl of about twenty.
A pastor of about fifty.
We are in colonial Massachusetts circa 1690.
The young girl bounds on to the stage running in horrified grief. She wails and cries, howls and trembles, screams into the air and then slowly composes herself looking straight out into the audience in a wordless plea to God.
Enter the Pastor behind her. He is wearing a black veil over his face but soon removes it as he begins to speak. The two never make eye contact. Instead he remains a few steps behind her at all times.
Continue reading Witchcraft- A vignette
As a young newspaper photographer, I saw some pretty horrific things. Continue reading Crybaby
“I’m done resting Ethan, how ‘bout you?” I whisper.
We both feel soft after practicing yoga and our hour-long, turning-within meditation technique. We’re still resting on the large mat that covers half the floor of our studio apartment. Two years ago while learning this technique, we met and three months later we moved-in, meditating together ever since. Continue reading The Caregiver
Lady feels liberated. She glides through the hallway. The day’s events sift and fall through her head like fairy dust. Blue carpeting ripples under foot like a rising tide.
Continue reading For Lack of a Hat Part III