Tag Archives: Writing poetry



Silversmiths retrace the fire; sweats
In rivulets down brawny arms, twin bushes
To the chin and through the valley of the pectorals; and he pushes
Gyres in the waters;
determination defeats defect, fatigue, frets

Along the instrument mould the

shining of a gentle mind’s design,
Undone, the fist and fingers as hammers in the process
Till the thing that was not is and what little rest
In thought becomes the thing, itself, the line,
A cut above a cusp between inspiration
And its final destruction. Destination, oh! the beauty of the thing
Will guide his hands securely and the synthesis, the ring
Of something new or newer makes its run from mental registration
To obsession in the finishing and glories to polish a wondrous sign,
A medallion of conception, some fine image formed of inner space and time.

Remembrances of that morning in 2001…”My Eyes Looked Up”

Remembrances of that morning in 2001…

“My Eyes Looked Up”

My eyes looked up and what I saw was more
Than they could bear; a rushing through the halls
With the roar of sorrow in the ears; I heard the call,
A warning, a deafening “Danger! Be reminded here before
The fact that what’s been said will never
Be unuttered; fractures in the zeitgeist, ciphers of a shrine
To endless days of contemplation, meditation in the marrow, brine
And bitter herbs will be the fare from this day until the day of rest; if ever
Was a day of mourning this one is!” Students
In the classroom all abuzz and even verging on a levity
–They had so little to employ their hours–proclivity
To expect experience on a screen or in the rubrics
Of the media, always in the past and never present in the sixes and the sevens.
Another trumpet, another decade, and another word for it: ubiquitous now as “9/11”!

“These Sonnets”


“These Sonnets”

These sonnets do seem at times
Something like aspirins or vitamin C;
You know the old stock remedy
From doctors that used to say,
“Take two of these tonight
And call me in the morning.”
For me, at least, the effects of writing
And even reading some of them
Are much more potent than their actual content
Since life, itself seems to demand from me
In the ordre of any given day
Oof effects than the actual content of any twenty-four hour period.
It’s not so much what I did today, but rather that I was alive to do it.

“By Day, the Toil!”


“By Day, the Toil!”

By day, the toil.  Just so. At times the ache
Returns, but somehow, nightfall must come. Perhaps
It is the hour, or something in the newly evening breeze, but laps
Throughout the day are then for someone’s sake
Forgotten, and he simply sits before the fire,
Or there, outside beneath the bluer, richer hues
Of cares and harsher edges of desire
To carve, to whittle, to embrace a life at once recused
In poetry, metre askew with so  little harmony, alone
Not so much in sparks, but in the riot of results.
He waves his hand and even owls listen; bolts
Of lightning in his voice again do not groan
But gently call to sit beside him in the light
Of distant days remembered in the call
to rest with him through the vanity of his night.


“Why write the book?”


“Why write the book?”

“Why write the book?” again she asks. Why resign or redesign
The box? Had she created how she spells
Herself, she might not raise the spectre of ephemera across the line
With all the others―no one here more the guest than she, herself―
Addressing: Who? or What? What for?
“Who was it did this thing?” she asks
As Aristotle turns another page for her she knows―a turn
Of phrase, all fine philosophy aside―and she’ll negotiate the door
That is not there or sit right down where she is. She’ll read or write or worse,
She’ll believe and leave another Orpheus on the floor. She’ll break
Her water, claim it’s all so sudden much too late
To ponder what it is she says within a second second verse,
“But, where’s the point of vanishing, and what the cue to reappear?”
She’s here, if nothing else with nothing less and nothing more to fear.

…painting by Valerie Hardy…

“Place My Signs”


“Place My Signs”

Place my signs as moons and satellites you’ve only heard of,
Midday’s virtual languishing luminaries; someone’s burden,
I’ll be here briefly seen where I’m observed,
What’s seen but once or long ago was and is no longer with no word of
What’s to become of me. These melodies waft, whispers from across the hall.
Many happen by and many more will read these sonnets written
In the night—never published—freely proffered; turn the page, more is written
In the surge the pen enjoys to pacify some hidden postponed call
From yesterdays to reassure tomorrows. I sense a slight joy in the thought
That twos and threes that sit so patiently, perplexed, perhaps a little willingly
At home in softer beliefs or worse, may move the lips while reading
Wonder in the content lightly stymied by the midnight magic, meters caught
About the margins of some momentary gladness in the stream, heart refined,
Their eyes reveal the stars in shards and sparks I’ve left behind.