Sunday Painter

The fast of the mind.
Learning about waves from waves
at Napatree Point.

Becoming not being.
I watch waves becoming waves
on the horizon

and dark origin
shines as it disappears. That

distinction trues the
waves becoming image in
my watercolor.


The moon outside her
bedroom window as we wait
for the tide to turn.

The smells of curry
from our takeout will mix
with the salt of sex

when the time comes. She
had a little haiku book
we’d read together.

Alone now I watch
the doubled moon in the eel
grass rising and falling.

Quiet Not Silent

The tea house quiet
on this frigid Saturday.

curbed at the hori-
zon of cold community.
Nobody’s leaving.

Over us holds a
rare fermata, already
the held note sustained.

Mortals and Immortals

These old bones can’t take
many more slips in the tub
or on the dark stairs.

Vulnerable too
to Eternity passing
over beautiful

faces. Then there’s you.
You light up the spaces be-
tween my best/worst lines.


As the backyard lights
up after one of those nights,
with the noise and blaze

of Steller’s jays, day’s
inscape and time’s breakthrough stands
for meditation:

God is constant in
the instant at a distance.
And we feed the birds.

No Pressure

Bless this Pelikan
nib. It has taught me not to
press down as I write.

To touch is enough.
Lying is common among
the powerful, we

poets have no power.
Millions die for the lies
told by presidents.

Gaspee Point

There’s a courage in
the February flurries
and the cutting wind.

I am shaking though
I keep going down Broad Street
having promised to,

to the little green
on the bay, where the school kids
are building snowmen.

That first night we made
love it was snowing, silent
but for your laughter.