“Where one can fall forever Into place”

Hey friends/followers, 

I am about to go to work so I don’t have time to say much. I’m trying some new things, myth-ish, narrative, poems with refrains; I don’t know, just trying to change it up…I’m not sure how I feel about the first four poems, but not nearly as satisfied as I am with the last two…especially number 5, which I write to honor my grandfather, as well as some of my English Teachers. 

Also, WordPress is goofy about Formatting whenever I copy and paste…sorry.


The Whole World In Your Hands


Our world is a puzzle

Making its picture around us.

Only one—or no one—

Can see the whole of it


From their quiet hell,

Alone, up in heaven.


It takes time,

Although, we believe

We don’t have it;


Our shoulders come to fit

In the needs our neighbor


And, without the assurance

Of an answer from heaven,


We can feel inside

The contours of our own

Existence a world


Whose shape is slowly becoming




All Things Are Just


All things are just as the stone is
A part of the rock; the unattached 
Earth, round as the awed mouth
Attached to the silence of space
In which our world pirouettes.

The sun rises at her dancing west
Asking along his beard, why
She must go on spinning
As she does, mother of chaos
And love without condition.

The stars within her eastern eyes
Find the western questions foolish gold.
They twinkle their myriad of replies
As stars do, with a cosmic silence.
And the earth she dances on.

Her orbit twirls their logic round:
Why must you go on asking
As you do, sun of darkness
And questions without conviction?
Why must you go on spinning
Your foolishness into reason?

The silent sages of the night wink
And light their proverbs:
“As long as there is chaos
One must love beyond condition.”



I’m Still Surprised


Why am I surprised

I left the oven on again.


Why am I surprised

The car battery has died;


That I have been to the market

Four times today

And returned with nothing

But a different wine in my hand.


Why am I surprised

I keep a loaded drawer of pill bottles

Lined like cartridge rounds

Eclipsing the bottoms surface.


Why am I surprised

The apartment’s as silent as I am.


Why am I surprised

Every time I picture the blinds

Snapping shut on the daylight

Outside the window

Like tomorrow I won’t

Picture the tomb shutting again.


Why am I not surprised

When the bolt kicks inside

The solid wood of the doorframe,

And the ambulance is on time,

As it always is-

Why am I not surprised;


And why am I still surprised

At how unbearable it feels

To come back to life again.





I am trying to be thankful

On this day that the sun has made,

Bringing with him a beard

Of long and snarled curls,

Which calmly twist like a friend’s

Dagger into your window panes;

The suns clouded glare is flexed

Across the spine of the newspaper

He brings each day. The obituary

Says she’s only three, the victim

Of another one of those crimes

I cannot stand. Another victim

Who I am trying to be thankful for

Because today they do not have to be

Alive—a participant in this place

That pretends each act is of no consequence.


I am trying to be thankful

That maybe she is in a place

Where every victim gets another chance.


I am trying to be thankful,

But I can’t. I only see her picture

Aging in the obituary; her next birthday

And high school dance; as a mom

At a PTA meeting, defending the child

She sees the need to die for

In order to protect. And I am

Trying to be thankful for all the people

Who, unlike me, are on this day thankful

When this little girl and I just can’t be.



To an English teacher
-For Robert

You don’t see the boundary
Line of a blank piece of paper
As something not 
Worth seeing beyond.

You see the need 
For never ending
A line of poetry 
On the same line 
As the last. Nothing flat
About the way each word
Carries on like a river;
Surprising itself
As a song does,
becoming something greater 
in coming to an end.

What you see
Is a white room
In a hospital;
And In fading away
See how much room
Is truly given
To move beyond the sheets 
Of your white page;
To let the words
Be written freely upon the walls;
Teaching all 
Who climb them
They are not the only ones 
Who tried in the brevity

Of their lives—

In thought and deed

And word and imagination—

To give themselves

Into love

And walk away.





Outside the sliding glass door

The refrain of highway tires

Composes a dull chorus,

Stretching itself louder

As a songbird ends its vigil,

Feeling the concluding faintness

Of his carol a final call

For safety from the night’s darkness,

And also an asking for another day’s newness

From every corner of the blue that’s gathering.


The shutters hold within

The light of this moment—a stillness.

Side by side we are naked;

Gathered beside the other

By a fraction of touching skin,

Where one palm is curved like a wing

On the balcony of my knee.


It is an invitation,

I believe,


Not to mimic your contour

But to become your shape

As well as mine, reflecting,

As the sky does

With its many atmospheres,

Both itself and also its opposite.


I have taught myself all these years

How to read the meaning of words,

But not the moments, nor to understand

The inches of time, or the anthem of light

Within one chord of a blue eyebeam.


Beyond what I know now

I am learning I know nothing;

Not of you or what you see

Outside of this window.


And inside—everything is terrified.

A heart shaking in its leather

You have smoothed

With the calmness of your own ocean.


And what am I to do

With the round world I see

Inside of your transparency;

The songbird leaning into the daylight

And singing its need to falter

Upward from the balcony of safety

That the earth is; and inch by inch

Find the sky is an ever-growing blue

Where one can fall forever

Into place.


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