Category: Poetry

Here are many of the poems I have written throughout my life, dating back to high school, so beware. As a poet, I’ve been pretty sporadic over the years, going through periods of high productivity when I was very young, to occasional bursts in midlife and very occasional drips as I’ve gotten older. I’ve found that the drips of my later years are far more appealing than the bursts (sometimes outbursts) of my youth, so I came to an accommodation. Instead of presenting everything here, I went by a standard of “that which is at least forgivable.” There is much in my moldering files, I’ve discovered, that is not. I’m sure you’ll find some of the work pretty engaging. Whether in the process of cataloging my expressions and impressions from across the years, I have weeded out all that indeed is unforgivable I, with some trepidation, leave for you to decide.

A Break

Give me a breakA break, I pray.I pray, a break, a break!A break, a break, a break, a break, a break! Prayer, the last refuge of the damned.Prayer, the damned.The damned, a prayer, a prayer!A prayer, a prayer, a prayer, a prayer, a prayer! Pick up a shovel, a hoe, a rake.A rake, pick up?Pick Read More …

As If

As if I know something worth listening to, As if something new needs to be heard. As if in the spheres and the tones of the years, An old voice hums magical words As if wisdom is warmed by the frank pulse of age, As if tired winds expose hidden truths, As if ancient erosions Read More …

The competition

They sat together on their couch, fresh from the Salvation Army. ”I love you,” he said, looking into her eyes. Which pooled and glistened. ”I love you more,” she smiled. ”No, I love you more,” he smiled back. ”No, I love you more.” ”No, I love you more.” ”No, I love you more,” ”I guess we’ll have forever to Read More …

Flakes of Oil

(From my novel Within the Bosom) Oil in flakes, dripping; clattering against the floor, making little rattling sounds like the toenails of mice on hardwood or dried leaves bouncing off a glass pane in the wind. Joy as salt, stinging; tumbling into old wounds, burning away afterthoughts like a matchstick just doused on bare skin or Read More …

Charcoal Wink

… and if no other misery age.                             — Ben Jonson “Welcome. ” His grin a mossy green crescent. Seething charcoal eyes wink with compatriot fire. Impeccable tuxedo. Bony, pocked, gray, rice-paper palm uplifted, friendly. “Would you like to have a look Read More …

A Rebuke of Irony

Deaf Beethoven. Blind Monet. Mute Granger. Man of the pen. Disciple of Algren, Sandburg, Norris. Contemporary of Royko, Kup, Mabley. Bereft of his words, Trapped for his own safety, mentally to paw aimlessly through the grimy politics of ’60s, ’70s and ’80s Chicago like Degas – yes him, too, blind  – wandering the streets of Paris. He Read More …

Pink Clouds

The early morning clouds of pink awoke me — So softly and so gently shook my arm. The dew that settled on my nose refreshed me. It’s richness to awake without alarm. I took a gentle step toward the tree there; Of course I first popped the sleep from my joints. And now I can Read More …