Monday, May 29, 2017


It's the day before midnight
where I sit collecting evidence
of vanished springtimes,
of Aprils long past:
shells, shards, ships,
psalter of strange voyage.

Soda-crackers of an eremite,
box-tops, green stamps, bottle-caps,
World's Fair bookmarks from 1939,
dimestore postcards of La Scala Santa.


Cutpurse sonnets,
three for a buck ninety-nine
at the refugees' flea-market.

Bulletin from Belchertown:
dead-heads have havoc'd
the Malbec pioneers
of a corporate Yuletide.

Starveling, December
stutter-steps onto the catwalk
coiffured à la garçonne.


Over cups of mud at The Sunny Side,
codgers bicker and cuss.
"You have a fresh mouth, chief:
who died and made you Elvis?"

I leave these testy widowers
and lummox forth into a gust
of winter at her stiffest.

This wind is arctic and Emersonian,
subjunctive and sassy.

I go sowing frost-seeds
in the family snowgarden,
half-past-six o'clock shadow
on my larkish chin.

Monday, May 22, 2017

Monastic Wisdom

Fr Wigram, white-haired Cowley monk,
was chatting with a postulant
who asked him which "method
of contemplative prayer"
he preferred.

The older priest
scratched his head and admitted:
"Well, usually I just kneel down
and hope for the best."

Wednesday, May 3, 2017

I'm Here

I hear the birds
of Lady Primavera,
a noted purveyor of lilacs.

I see daffodils at my laptop,
hyacinths by the recliner,
bumblebees in the coffee-mug,
robins by the iPhone,
sparrows atop the fridge.

Antic, frisky,
April announces,
I'm here! and flings
her hundred thousand flowers,
a laughing Ophelia
whose mind is all light.

Pray you, mark!
this tuft of green
which shines like nature's neon.
And look, this willow
burgeoning aslant
a gaily chattering brook!

All this bright grace
after long months
of cold hope!

68th Letter to a Poet

Awake till three, I tried reading Allen Ginsberg but overdosed on his naughty-boy language: baldpate sophomore. I nodded off to TV jaz...