Winter Noon

A cold mist at noon.

The children on the playground

blurs of yellow, red,

blue. Their voices blend,

a small ocean of meanings

I cannot fathom.

I listen, recall

the first page of Moby Dick,

those stick men leaning.

This Morning

This morning’s text is

for absolute read between–

not from itself a-

lone but everything

from beyond itself. And no one

alone. Midwinter,

under darker tires,

morning streets glisten darkly,

heaven’s way to say.

Living with Strangers, Living with Ourselves

An hour of sun, some

more rain. I walk in the crowd.

How close we live here

in contingency,

keep promises to strangers,

rarely if ever

touch, but, being touched,

it’s with apologies forth-

coming and blushes.



The Polished Dance Floor

Hardy and Herrick,

poets of the dance of time

in times trans-shifting,

I call on you midst

laptops and hunched citizens

of now, you call me,

an old man smiling

to himself, to join you on

the polished dance floor.







The baker who brings

me hot bread sings as she whips

butter and honey.

I’m still cold, the wind

almost kept me from meeting

you wherever you

are.  Have some hot bread

slathered with honey butter.

We’re but rags and bones.

Saying No

Mt. Hood can’t be seen

this gray January day.

I face its snowy

top.  I take a break

from the news, uniformly

bad, of our tyrant.

People look at me,

doubting.  Just a few minutes

to say no in peace


Grand Central

This place a bird cage

today. The coffee alone

seeks the silence with-

in. The voices blur

into one blur. The coffee’s


releases the birds.

Now a new poem can breathe

its own-most silence.