Posted in Poetry

Alien Worlds Waiting

Blue leaves that ring
At a touch under
Twin-sunned skies;
Not-birds aloft on
Linen-like wings,
Whispering over
Ebony seas;
Alien worlds waiting
On library shelves
Where they might be found
On summer days
In the years when
Asimov and Heinlein
And Norton and Dick
Were selling tickets
To places unreachable
Except by curling up
On couches or
Sliding under covers
And moving through the chapters
Of paper starships.

Posted in Poetry

Little Electron

Things cohere, by whose decree?
Who declared this quantum affinity?
Plus and minus, p and e —
Little electron, who made thee?

Posted in Poetry

Among Needled Pines

Rigid, pinched, and bleached
Belief’s been nurtured here for years
Among needled pines
And switchbacks, among pews
Of willful disregard, of insularity
Made king under neon Jesus signs.

Posted in Poetry

Raw December Mornings

Who’ll say a word or two
for raw December mornings,
bones beset by seeping cold,
moods to match,
solitude the best company,
a duvet the best refuge.

Posted in Poetry

A Throttling Back

I’m alone in my treehouse,
A studio above a garage,
Dawn still an hour or more away,
My mug of dark roast at my side.
Not having checked the weather,
I’m mildly surprised by tympani rolls
Out of the clouds toward the trauma center.
Then the swell of a late winter deluge.
After that, a throttling back,
An easing of the gully washer
Into a gentleness.
Then a modest percussion of
Sprinkles against the gutters.
And the ensemble at rest,
Only the arias of the waking birds
And the wail of an ambulance
Rolling toward the ER
Breaking the silence.

Posted in Poetry

Can’t Hurry Grief

Can’t hurry grief.
It’ll stay and overstay its season,
And take so slow a leave
That you might not notice
It’s become easier to breathe.

Posted in Poetry

A Pigeon Pacing

A pigeon pacing is a graceless thing, a dull balloon lumbering on toothpick stilts, its gaze jumping herky jerky here and there. But when it lifts on those formidable wings, steadied by its exquisite fan of a tail, it leaves all its awkwardness behind, renewing its elegance as it climbs, then soars, one with the April winds over the roofs of the town.

Posted in Poetry

Do You Know?

Do you know the birds’ name
For you? Do you know their tale
Of how you lost your wings?
Of why you change your feathers?
Of why you sometimes sing?