Archive for the ‘Poetry’ Category

Ripley, Asleep

Less dog than crumpled rug,
Ripley lies
asleep at her master’s feet.
Splayed paws,
finding no ground to grip,
claw at thin air.
Unfocused, turned inward,
though half open,
both eyes are clouded over.
While in pursuit
of an elusive dreamscape,
her nose remains
fully attuned to the scents in
this living room.
Still, it is not the television
or our laughter
that prompts resurrection,
it is the incessant
tug of a child’s curiosity.
Moments before,
about to tear a squirrel
into edible pieces,
she was determined to
devour it whole.
Yet, instantly sheathing
jagged teeth
when rudely awakened,
Ripley instead
licks the offender’s hand.



If winter cannot be repudiated,
its seemingly endless
reign can at least be defied.
Rather than taking to
the streets in protest, let us
crowd grocery stores
and cast a vote of discontent.
Our nonpartisan
purchases a symbolic form of
protest against
the season’s one-party rule.
In opposition to
the cold, produce favored
over canned goods,
dissidents all, let us fill carts
and baskets with
plums, peaches and papaya.
Even if non-binding,
uniting Republicans and
Democrats alike,
our resolution to disregard
winter’s dominance
will still be a fruitful distraction.

Creatures Of Habit

Over the years
I have gotten to know other
creatures of habit.
Homogeneous time tables have
introduced us in
the close proximity of familiarity
and regularity.
Converging on walks and runs,
bike commutes,
happenstance has turned into
an expectation.
Strangers only because they
remain nameless.
Recognition acknowledged
by their nods,
smiles and good mornings.
A supposition
taken for granted until habits
fail to intersect.

Springing Forward

Roadside petroglyphs,
sun carved, armored with splashed grit––
March’s filthy snowbanks

At the finish line,
winter’s breath personified—
ice sheets on the beach

Sunshine’s lemonade—
an indulgence despite noon’s
strict puritan wind

Spreading contagion—
laughing children drawn outdoors
now a pandemic


Today, no one
wants be here, so they are not.
Two tables down,
someone is surfing Google Earth.
Across the room,
another person is absorbed in
reading Facebook
posts from vacationing friends.
Despite the reality
of a window’s full color panorama,
most patrons are
using wireless to provide another
means of escape.
And even those lifelong friends,
bereft of devices,
loudly laughing in conversation,
aren’t really here.
With the past on their breath,
they ride memory’s
time machine, joining the crowd
in its absence.


When the regulars appear
there is no need to glance at the clock,
they are her timepiece.
Although she is aware of every name,
“Honey” suffices for each.
A priestess, this is her congregation.
For most, she does not
bother with a notepad; their orders,
unchanging as the view
of that parking lot, are memorized.
Retirees ushered in
by the two-lane outside her cafe,
this might well be their
only social interaction for the day.
Refilling coffee cups
and not rushing the check’s arrival,
at no extra charge
she banters before clearing the table,
never minding the tip.

Brusque Rebuke

In yesterday’s
warm abundance of sunshine,
exuberant as
a brook freed from winter’s
tight corset,
no longer tongue-tied by ice,
how I babbled.
Absolved from the season’s
monastic vows,
I indulged in the sin of song.
But today
again finds me monosyllabic.
Despite dawn’s
defiant soliloquy of bird song,
I’m left sullen as
an adolescent sternly shushed.
March’s brusque
rebuke has once again chilled
hope’s response.