One place understood helps us understand all places better.

Eudora Welty

Sunday, December 16, 2018

A season of sun

Gaping yellow
Jon Thomson - Wikimedia Commons

white riots
surrounding sunken

On the bank
in the field

Green leaves
of grass
and white

a meadow
far back
from the road.

So much
that the sun
must find shadow
to rest

In summertime
all the time

Leaves an abode
of nothing
but less

While long
purple fingers
and lovelace
tulip tree

Turn to a season
in the sun
And a lost one
such as me.

Monday, August 27, 2018

Wednesday, August 1, 2018


A raindrop falls
By Acagastya from Wikimedia Commons

and perishes in the sun

A summer shower
has just begun

Another drop falls
and trickles down the gate

Up in the hollow
the waters wait

Until a downpour
swallows drop after drop

And the stream rises
and overtops

The banks and pasture

The flood announces
another year

Will be one of
replenish and repair

From raindrops
appearing in thin air.

Wednesday, July 25, 2018

Southern Smile

National Archives at College Park [Public domain]
The writer Flannery O’Connor once remarked: “Anything that comes out of the South is going to be called grotesque by the northern reader, unless it is grotesque, in which case it is going to be called realistic.”

Grotesque is defined as comically or repulsively ugly. The South (the American South) is mostly comically grotesque until it isn't, then it is repulsively grotesque. But there is a reason for this, the South was cut from its cultural moorings some one hundred fifty years ago. Yes, the Civil War. Maybe laid to rest by most in the country, it is still breathing (now on life-support perhaps) in the South.

But then it must be remembered that the South is the only region in the United States that has been defeated in battle (I ignore the history of Native Americans for the moment). This left a scar, by turns comical and repulsive, that underpins the true South (not the South of transplants). The true South is haunted by ghosts, not of the ether but of the mind. The true Southerner will never forget though he may not know what or why he won't forget. He'll raise the Battle Flag without a thought and then get incensed if someone points out the connotation of what he has done. A symbol of defiance is his attitude, he believes if you refuse to recognize defeat then defeat is well, defeated. You can see it in Southern eyes and especially Southern smiles.

The following is a poem I wrote a long time ago in a land that barely exists now but will always haunt. Note that this is not a ghost story but a dream sequence.

Chair, the room with
white walls
Come… sit down to fry.

My body balloons with
a fever
Mother somewhere, cries…

My man sits down to break-
sits down to food-feast.

My body longs a drink to health
longs a sad sweet sleep.

Rest easy my man I drift
All hail your toast and jam,

I taste your last bit of Oran-juice
Such soft shoulders in my hands.

A flip of wrists; neck-twist,
feel sadness,
a Southern lady screams in pain.

I’m drawn away to face the
looks like a sky-rain.

All is lost my body tossed
on a cool linen sheet,
Must have been a dream my friend
One dreamed quick before I sweet-sleeped.

“It was in all the papers,”
  said the man,
“So fine a Southern belle,
  the same morning he was
  fried, God rest him –“
  -- he smiled --
“God rest him in hell.”

Saturday, July 7, 2018


Where is the space
Public Domain

in your heart
that I dwell?

Where are the moments
in your day
that I fill?

Where are the words
that show what
I mean to you?

Where do you cry
for me as I
for you?

Where have the times
we've shared

Where does the past
belong so that
now we can give?

Where do the lives
we've lived

Where does love
once intertwined
lose the thread?

Saturday, June 16, 2018

The scroll

The scroll is a long
By Eazydp

unrolling curl

The stars are far
unfolding worlds

And what do we know
of ancient skies

When the scroll
was not so long

And the stars
were in position wrong

But were just as true
then as now

And will still be 
when we reach the end 

Of future skies
that in a moment descend 

As the scroll rolls shut
in thunderous assent.

Sunday, June 3, 2018

Call & Response

By Snowmanradio
Love starts
when one
calls and
one responds.

Love is
when two
don't stop

To see
who calls
and who responds.

Wednesday, May 16, 2018

My walk

By M.Strīķis

a forest

through my life

I'm deep
in the leaves

down a path

I've caught
a moment's

the rushing

That urges
upon me a course

That starts
me walking

Sunday, April 29, 2018

i am ten

i am ten
i watch tv
it scares me

i see war
my brother 
fought war

i saw a dead boy
my age

they said he is migrant
is that what killed him?

i don't want
to be migrant

my brother doesn't
want to be dead

i hear them talk
more than listen

they say mean things
about each other

do they say mean things
about me?

my dad tells me
not to watch

but I want to know
what they say

i am ten
growing old
i believe
what i see

i even
see in
my dreams
what they
want me to see

i even
see in
my future
what they want
me to be

but then
i don't see me.

Tuesday, April 17, 2018

Dry stone

By inajeep - Spearfish Canyon, S.D.
Dry stone
river buffets
your rounded form
As you buttress the water
and hold your ground

Bask in the sun
high above the water
line, 'til winter comes
and the waters

And dry stone
then you will find,
a limit to the drying sun
when wet stone
you become.

Sunday, April 1, 2018


By Jessie Eastland
I see the sun
A perfect day

Come out they say
Is not the way

I see the deep sky
To catch your eye

Lonely is this
For life begins

Don't let it end

Thursday, March 15, 2018

Bumblebee window

In bumblebee windows
By Bernie - Wikipedia

winter has gone

Still slanted sunlight
carries us along

Shadows on the wall
of bumblebees in the air

Catches a cat napping

That bumblebee shadows
dance in his hair

And bumblebees rattle
the window there

Lazy cat's still
dreaming of wintertime

Lazy people still
waiting for spring to arrive

But I have awakened
to the possibilities

Of bumblebee spring
in place of winter dreams

Of windows of sunlight
in place of dark memories

And bumblebee windows 
that comfort me.

Thursday, March 1, 2018

A single flower

Dr. Markus Hohenegger
I am a single flower
in an open field

To the sun I turn
to the wind I yield

To the ground I trust
my roots to grow

My leaves to spread
my petals just so.

Sunday, February 4, 2018

Concerto's end

The birds
By fir0002 Wikimedia Commons

on branches

A glimpse
one catches

But when music

Then one

A concert

Of serious

And rondos

As couplets

Until ritornello

But then darkness

And concertos

Monday, January 8, 2018

Some other way

Up the hillside
By Rosser1954 Roger Griffith

by the graveside
comes the boy
to sweep

His mother's broom
gathers the gloom
clasps at the grave
to keep

The lonely sight
in early night
as the boy sweeps
clutter away

What may have been
had his father then
served country and king
in some other way.