poetry
Numb
I can't decide anything these days: sonnet or free verse; to read on the couch or spend my son's brief nap putting away dishes as if dishes could ever stay clean; hope or despair...
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Be The Change
Paper Plane
Bad news blares from every stamen, every mouth, every passing car and leaf blower. I am coated in dust. It has been too long since I left this spot. How do trees do it? Do they too grow stiff and restless
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Of War and War and War
“When you attack us, you will see our faces. Not our backs, but our faces.” - President Volodymyr Zelensky Beneath a Bougainvillea-laced trellis I r
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The Price of Gas
No one is to blame for anything anymore. Or is it that everyone is to blame for everything? Maybe the world has gotten too small: so many billions of us, incomprehensible to ourselves, let alone one another, crowded together
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Ukraine
long before the stamps commemorating peace, before factories resumed churning out grenades, some made off with blueprints for conquest, taped them to the walls of their dreams
poetry
The Business of Life and Death
Suppose I grant you the premise of your question. Should I gather up my limbs at once and build something immortal with them? What could I construct to outlast the drowsy calm of this moment?
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Elephant
Out of the blue our three-year-old declares he doesn’t like the elephant. For days he repeats—unbidden, as if recalling a nightmare—that he doesn’t like the elephant.
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The Raison D’Etre of a Bad Habit
Some talk during movies. Others crack their knuckles, drink to excess, buy things they don’t need, make mountains out of molehills.
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The Spirit of Christmas
It's all too much, the floor strewn with gifts we couldn't possibly deserve. But our son is happy, going from toy to toy, and so are we, smiling along with him as he plays with the train, the trucks, the scooter.
Be The Change
After Thanksgiving
So much death and pain today: slaughtered fowls, reminders of genocide and oppression, celebration of abundance denied to billions. Cousin, did you know 400,000 Ethiopians are suffering famine?
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The Fog of Anger
At what time the fog took over, I do not know: I was, if not sleeping, attempting to, tossing and turning like a Heron's wing, lost in fog.
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After ‘Crossing Brooklyn Ferry’
Love, like light, has no mass, is information. Not that which is found in books, newspapers, sacred texts: Suns laugh at our quest for knowledge. Imagine a poem with no beginning or end, no author or reader, words or meaning—