I grow lazy about writing poems. 

My companion is the detachment of age

(These lines take great effort;

I hope you appreciate this.) 

Pleasure is something as simple as

massaging a fleeting care from my brow,

letting go…

Oh, I see scenes of my past

A boy on a farm, a dog, 

a traveler for a time, 

a student, a young husband, father,

a striver full of self-doubt

but they are not me any longer

different bodies, different chapters

in a book I’ve closed and 

put on a distant shelf. 

Even my name, my byline, was important in

small ways, if only to me, my family. Were 

someone to call it out, 

I cannot say if I would respond.
It would not feel like me any more.

I am moving, moving
as in a deep, mysterious forest of
massive, silent, trees humming

with eternity. But I cannot see far along
this twisting path of no

known destination. 

The clock strikes eleven

the day is sunny and calm

a breeze moves the colorful flags outside

stirs the clematis vines

and strolls through my house

Dragonflies gather at my door

The roses quietly visit the yard with elegance

And my heart is ignorant of all else. 

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“The lyfe so short, the craft so long to lerne." --Chaucer


Poetry, Photography, haiku,


In happiness my words I lack, in grief they overflow.

The Wild Heart of Life

Creative Nonfiction & Poetry



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