We are (all) personal care attendants

Attending to each other—

But, most of all,

In that relationship—

We become companions.

Perhaps that is what happens—

After love’s personal illusions


As we accept

Mutual understanding.


Maybe we can just skip the step of love

And go right into companionship!


Ms. Holly complains after eating pizza,

Which, she thoroughly enjoys.

“Too much salt!

I can feel my legs swelling up,

And it hurts to walk.”

I tell her to put her feet up,

She does not have to talk—

 I remind her,

That I, cannot remember

what I forgot.

–It takes awhile

Before we turn to each other

Returning discreet smile—


Accepting what we do

And what we do not.



Companion: Notes on a Paper Bag

Companion: Notes on a Paper Bag


Tags: , , ,

Haibun Monday # 23 – contemporary cityscape

Circus Cities 

        I’m a town and country person, although I have lived away from my New Hampshire woods. I have lived in a few big cities. In Pittsburg, living in the projects, we use to go into the rail yards and scoop up left over vegetables into pillowcases that the unloading machines couldn’t reach. Or, go over the stone wall to steal some grapes from a neighbor living below the projects, which I believe, let us ‘cause we never got caught. But, the most disturbing thing I witnessed, going to school in NY City, watching a dog defecating on the sidewalk. On concrete, not grass or leaves in the woods… on cement! That, I thought, was the most dehumanizing, de-animalizing consequence of our circus cities.

We don’t know we’re goofy

Until it rains

After building our house

Forgotten the roofy


Posted by on October 17, 2016 in Notes left on the refrigerator, Poetry



A riddle answered in humility—

Nothing has to be proven to me

that you are better than I am

 we both know it.

Why the proof?


Posted by on October 15, 2016 in Poetry, Spiritual, thoughts, Zen


Tags: , ,

Riots in Our minds

On Bob Dylan receiving the Nobel prize for literature:

Needless to say, besides Yes! Today October 13, 2016,… how surprised and pleased about the Nobel Literature prize given to an artist, philosopher, prophet, and enabler for me, as I was young, who gave me direction, saying to myself, “if he can write and sing like that, I have a chance! Especially the singing part “.🙂

This piece is in a volume of my work “The Night Before Breakfast “, that reflects his influence as I interpreted it into mine, (if not all I write). I could never explain his influence in my creative life. My generation should be proud.

“Will the circle be unbroken by and by Lord, by and by?”


Riots in our minds. Ever since make-believe

Became animation gunned down on the screen;

Shields of civility crumbled into face guards, titanium bras,

And shoulder holsters concealing mace, and razors

Freely dispensed in the religion of “crush and hate.”


Riots in our mind of dissatisfaction. Spurring the beast of greed,

Whether for gold or for whatever we think

Is ours; whatever we think “we deserve”

Piling on the “I am better.”

For the implosion of pleasure.


Our society, like Rome is burning.

Play, Nero, play!  

Sizzle indifference for every god’s sake!

Burn respectability and responsibility;

Like crumbling toast on a flaming paper plate.


An evil tune from Hell’s riot plays!

Heart bangers and head choppers slither off the stage

Straddling and humping the sword of decency, heated with fervor.

You can hear them murmur,

 “Break circle break!

Break circle break!

Break circle break!

 Break it for ignorance

For our self-loving sake.”


The true self wants this riot in silence.


Posted by on October 13, 2016 in Poetry


Immortal Lover

How can the infinite space of the universe capture

And descend into my arms

Another heart with a mind

So unfamiliar to mine?


[From where could it fall?]


An experience that might as well be from the stars

Blinking, shinning, glittering,

 Far too far from it all.

Yet, sends its notice to me through heart and senses  

Dusting my mind in powdered confection.


I thank the morning for logic unimaginable,

Quietly sharing toast with melting honey,

Black coffee and smiles unspeakable.



Posted by on October 6, 2016 in Love, Poetry


Tags: ,

Un-Stolen Love

  Then— When I was younger if you stole my shit I’d kick your ass. And Sometimes, I was ripped off gettin’ my justice ass kicked.

  Now— After many bouts with reality some won, some lost, gettin’ close to an age of seventy I’ve gained some humility, understanding, and dignity.

  Forever— You are welcomed to take what you find, whatever you want from me, without stealing from each other. Take it, if it fits or fulfills your needs… enhancing it for another.


rose winter root sleep

until you rise in spring time

our love I shall keep


Posted by on October 3, 2016 in Poetry


Saint Peter’s Orphanage 1950

Starless night, cold gray fog creeping up steel posted gates;

In spaces of bowing heads and hands being held,

Shadows grow and withdraw under muffled haloed lights.


Creeping through the entrance, they all looked up to see

Guarding the gate; a damp dew dripping concrete statue

Standing with a heel on a serpent

 an Archangel with flared wings wielding a sword.

Forever to be their best friend.


The witnesses passed by slowly. The children, carrying paper bag suitcases

In one hand and the other clasped tightly to each other.


Unpredictable darkness merges into a softly glowing doorway.

Their father quickly blesses himself

Whispering a Hail Mary, takes out four quarters.


Placing one in each daughter’s hand,

And slipping one in each boy’s pants pocket.

He gently knocks on a well-polished oak door.


Dim yellow light emerges.

Sister Saint Helen opens the vestibule.


Smiling, she places the paper bags on a large mahogany table,

Shushing them together, closing the heavy, silent, well oiled, orphanage door

She nods good-bye to the children’s father.


Sealed in, they become frightened like birds

With a broken wing.



Two bedroom flat above the American Legion, a band is playing downstairs.

Hat on the kitchen table, the young father sighs as he pops open a beer.

It’s been five years since the war.

Six years since he graduated High school

And, two years since the boy’s mother left them.

Acknowledging his inability

To come to grips with his situation;

Being abandoned by love, a turn of the cycle begins.

Tears blur his eyes; his heart sinks,

Then floats on Holy melancholy consolation.




(Forty years later, father having passed away in a veterans home)

 I’m sending you, mother and father, your youngest son September 24, 2016

Welcome him to a place where the Butter nut tree

And the bitter-sweet is still called home.)




Posted by on October 2, 2016 in Getting Old, Love, Pine Cone Diaries, Poetry, thoughts


Tags: ,

%d bloggers like this: