The news is full, 

noisy, screaming, well coiffed,

make-up perfect for the show.

In our faces with the latest,

gossip as news.

Social media abuzz,

rumors flying fast,

when all is desired is peace.

That ever elusive dream,

a quiet space in the midst,

a meadow deep in the forest,

laying in the warm sun,

the only noise, a heartbeat.

Hugging the earth, 

seeking refuge,

in the embrace.

Summer Musings

Midsummer days bring a laziness,

laying in the still warm air listening,

to the sounds of life around.

The buzz of bees in the flowers

people going to and fro. 

The birds gliding on invisible currents,

while I remain rooted below.

A soft gentle breeze, cools,

the clouds shift in the blue sky,

visions of shapes and figures,

a mother holding her child.

In those clouds I see life,

ever changing, always moving,

going from birth to death,

twisted and driven by the winds. 

My own hopes and dreams,

born on the wings of the spirit,

my words gently guiding, 

drawing me closer into,

a deeper communion.

My soul seeking that place,

where love is in the air,

ever present, unafraid,

listening to the voice of grace.

What Would I Do?

What would I do if she ever died,

how would I carry on,

a misfit like myself, with no anchor.

I’d drift between the worlds,

a living specter unable to cope.

Somewhere between the living and dead,

there you will find me,

buried as deep as any corpse,

as hidden as the roots of a tree.

What would I do if she ever died?

My heart would cease to see loves brightness,

I would be hollow, a carved out Halloween pumpkin,

empty of all that makes up who I am.

Without her love to inspire my words,

without her touch to heal my wounds.

Love is the bond we share,

beyond the intimacy of the night.

A deep pool that never empties,

throughout a life that ebbs and flows.

We hold each other’s soul in the heart,

we breath deeply each other’s passion.

What would I do is she ever died? 

That’s the leap of faith we take,

when we become one flesh, 

to share in life’s pains and joys,

knowing that one day we will part,

to pay the toll to cross the river,

into eternities light, bound together.


I sat there, six years old watching,

a 12 oz. Gansett, the beer of Rhode Island,

carefully spilt between two small glasses.

The cribbage board comes out,

the cards are shuffled, then dealt,

the two men in my life,

the “Jickey” and Dad.

The little old man winks at me,

that twinkle in his eye.

We sit at the kitchen table, 

as cards are dealt. 

“You deal a hand like a foot”,

they look at each other,

opponents bound by blood.

Father and son battling it out,

I listen as dad counts,

the pegs move along the board.

No small talk, only counts,

already know the weather,

already know the Red Sox are out.

They talk with their cards,

shuffling, dealing, moving the pegs.

Soon, the last bit of beer is gone,

the pegs placed back in their hold,

the cribbage board returned to its box.

Dad and I get ready to go,

“Got a long drive ahead of us, Pa,”

I look at the two of them, 

a quiet spectator of my own future.

An Introvert Wonders

I sit here, wondering,

it’s what introverts do best.

Wondering why, 

wondering how,

wondering who I am,

in all of the messiness.

Do I matter?

There are smarter people,

who know what they’re doing,

who have all the answers.

I sit in a morass of thoughts,

thick as spilled molasses,

oozing slowly down,

creating a sticky mess.

I’m stuck in its grip,

but the mess is my own,

my thoughts a jumble,

my heart heavy,

I’m in the grip,

of thoughts dark and deep.

You’re not worthy,

to stand among the elite,

the voices within shout.

Don’t even try, life’s too short.

Disappear into the dusk,

into the shades of night,

Yet, the words fight,

to break down the 

barriers of the heart.

I stand in the storm,

refusing to back down,

refusing to be quiet any longer.

Incomplete poetry,

of a broken mind,

seeking a voice in the chaos.

Love being the catalyst,

the heart open to hear,

gazing out onto the world,

seeing beauty in the ugly.

Holding tightly to her,

in the nightly hours,

in the midst of the night terrors, 

that plague the introverts thoughts.

Desert Crossing

My God, My God

he screams crossing the desert.

Why have you forsaken me,

his lips cracked dry,

his body broken.

Eloi, Eloi lama sabachthani,

he cries with his last breath,

visions of his wife and children

grow dim, as he sinks slowly.

Seeking freedom, 

he found a closed door,

a wall of indifference,

built out of fear. 

Out of the vastness,

stars bright in the heavens,

his shouts go unheard.

My God, My God,

we have forsaken ourselves,

we have forsaken your image.

Highway Cross

Along the highways, 

the crosses lie,

marking places of sudden loss,

flowers, brown and brittle,

hang sadly, 

blown by the passing traffic.

The name faded, the paint worn,

old jersey’s ragged and torn.

Those passing, hardly notice,

as they rush headlong forward.

An old woman, 

worn and thin,

stops by the side,

in her hands bright flowers.

Placing them gently,

she stands silent,

the bustling chaos passing,

her head bowed down, 

as tears flow.

The harried hardly notice,

too busy, 

too rushed,

unknowingly heading,

toward their own,

faded flowers and tears,

of their own,

sudden loss.