I’ve written numerous short poems over a period of thirty-five years. Included here is a selection of the ones I continue to read.
A Billion Destinies
first the wall
and then the trees
awake from their peace.
beneath the stars
a breath of light
and then a solar blast
reminds them that
night is past.
and I across the way
looking through my foggy lens
revive.
to be alive
is a transient gift
like the sun who
firmly drifts
across heaven
coursing through
a billion destinies.
but we are not watching.
–2021
At the Park
the pigeon was worried about
finding a meal
so I gave her one of mine
–2021
April 2021
our trees have decided
it’s time to bloom
so off go the buds
out the petals, the leaves
in comes the chartreuse
and we are free
to sit around in thought
to talk about it.
–2021
The Wind
After the birds fledge
the wind has nothing nasty to do
save picking off tourists’ hats
and moving them to another county.
So wisely, it rests,
listens to the dragonflies,
observes the other bugs wandering about and
waits for the coming Fall.
–2018-19
I’m A Monarchist
The monarch butterfly,
long free of its cocoon and
wandering,
takes a solo flight,
down Bleecker Street,
in New York City.
The pigeons in Father Demo Square
don’t give a damn,
nor do the winos, retired folks,
panhandlers, young lovers, junkies,
and other malcontents
watching the pigeons,
imitating ants,
endlessly looking for food.
The monarch isn’t looking for food.
It doesn’t care who’ll kick its fuckin ass,
or whether the market’s up or down.
It’s never been to a market of any kind.
It doesn’t have an ass.
All it wants is out,
and south,
Maybe to Mexico if it’s lucky
and there’s enough milkweed along the way.
I wonder how I can help,
as it veers and banks,
just missing
being gobbled
by the grill on an ’83 Ford.
A slice of sunshine at Carmine Street blinds.
I lose it for a minute.
Someone asks me for money.
The monarch feints, turns,
takes a block from a step-in van,
And it’s gone.
–1995
A Bird
One more worm,
then he rests.
Listless,
bum that he is,
he opens his beak,
and the wind, the stars
become merely shadows.
–2003
Untitled
Bursting off the pond
the mallard sings,
first with his wings
then with his crazy mouth,
addressing the wind.
No Koan Here
Things settle
at the airports, and
traffic resumes.
Among the milkweeds,
the butterfly levels his wings.
He banks, drops six legs,
and casually touches down.
–2006
Three “Kinda” Haikus
———————————
look under the washboard—
a silverfish, weeping.
———————————-
zip up your slicker,
you wet old chipmunk.
———————————-
I wish the stars
had more energy.
–2008