Archive for the ‘Poetry’ Category


No doubt, Death has
the strength to take my life.
Is it asking too much
for him to have the gentle
hands of my father?
If he did, I could not resist
when lifted, legless
with fatigue, to be carried
safely inside on this
journey’s dark conclusion.
Why cannot Death’s
bed soothe like a father’s
sturdy shoulder?
Ensconced in such security,
I’d never wake
when tucked into earth’s
enduring bones.
If his embrace is everlasting,
may Death’s touch
convey paternal concern.
Lord, grant me this.


March Snow

How messy
last night’s laundered whites
now seem,
although pristine when first
draped on
wires and boughs for drying.

Today, that
laundry resembles a jersey
worn through
a rugby match, embossed
with stains
and the traffic of footprints.

For what was
immaculate and dazzling,
in sunshine
became tonight’s load of
muddy clothes
after meeting bare ground.

Dead Quiet

Dead quiet
on a winter’s night?
Not quite.
Ice sidles into
every crack,
rinds windows.
a python’s grip,
and encircling,
the cold
is almost alive.
Nails pop
as wood contracts
with a groan.
While beneath us,
veins of copper
a home’s heart
gusts of heat in
this contest
of sworn foes.
Dead asleep
on a winter’s night?
Not quite.
Curled together,
a question mark,
we dream,
restless in the din.


Friends with
busy lives advise:
Be wise,

chair-bound, I’m
content to

A poem
chiseled to its
life, magnified.

Maple Tree

Autumn has
undressed Summer’s privacy.
Our belle
of the ball stands exposed.
Last week,
voluminous in the swirl of
a gown.
Today, crumpled rags are
all that
remain, gathered at its feet.
Once stripped
of Sunday’s regalia, what
is left
lacks the allure of a curve.
With that
bustle of leaves discarded,
no longer
is it a Rubenesque figure.
Minus its
shade, a curtain must now
be drawn.


A wind-fueled blast of
arctic air has kept us cocooned
all weekend long.

Weak as it is, the sun’s
feeble warmth is compensated with
a deceptive brightness.

Reading the morning paper,
I lounge over a cup of tea and listen
to you putter in the kitchen.

More deaths in the news;
some named, warranting a headline,
others are simply statistics.

In the fragile protection
of brick and timber, how tenuous
our very survival seems.

Still, soothed by the gust
of furnace heat, full from breakfast,
I feel too alive to worry.

And glancing your way,
there in that splash of sunlight,
how immortal you look.

Bristling with electricity,
in need of your company, I rise
to help dry the dishes.

A spark crackles, strong
enough to ignite Spring itself,
when I lean in for a kiss.

Exercise Equipment

Some hold accumulating clutter.
Others crowd valuable basement or corner space.
Most, unseen by the averted eye,
pine away to rust from neglectful indifference.
A few will be donated to charity.
Even more, dragged surreptitiously to the curb.
Every January, the ones that
remain appear on a list of New Year’s resolutions.
A number will be put to the test
for a month or two, until guiltily forgotten again.
Impossible to relocate without
the aid of another strong back, the majority will
shabbily acquire a dust coating.
Imposing, although corroded into obsolescence,
patience is their greatest strength.
They are sure to exercise the ire of whoever is
entrusted to cart away the estate.