Lost Is The Chaser

You have always loved early morning light.
Raising shades pushing closed curtains open.
Each flash from room to room? Presence left bright.

I have followed steps morning to dusk.
I have watched you sigh with a darker sky
And laugh at the sun, for late waking up.

I have caught you in my afternoon arms
I felt your escape from curtain to shade                                       From door to door, calm and without alarm.

 Briskly from room to room almost a dance.
Occasionally you gave me a smile
with blinking dark eyes, in a quick side-glance.

Lost is the love that never can be caught.
Lost is the chaser that never can stop.

Note: Inspired by a modern sonnet by Robert Frost’s “Acquainted With The Night”. ( a must read for all future and current Poets, in my opinion :). The written poem is beneath the video 


Posted by on May 6, 2017 in New Hampshire, Poetry, Robert Frost, Sonett


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Notes Found On The Refrigerator April 2017

I remember my father, telling me, as we were walking to the rest room, “Don’t foget to washes your hands”. I said, “I know, I do. After”. “Now that you are growing up, I suggest you wash your hands before. Can you imagined, what you have touched today? Doorknobs, handshakes, coins, dollar bills, light poles, oh, and who knows? You get the picture. I Wash BEFORE and AFTER. Do you understand”? He replied. “Yes sir”, I said.

Memories idyll

Between winter and spring time

Awakening day



The lamps are on, I can see from their window.

Golden shades worn from years long gone;

Pulled down into shadows.



Seedlings grow from dark to light

What have I sown this morning bright?

How have I grown? Questioned—

Through this sleepless night.


Listening, understanding, and mutual agreement

After speaking each other’s truth and feelings.

Remembering to respond with peace;

Not with words already spoken,

But with the inaudible ones,

The heart so often hears.

Love Is Not Abstract


The light of day is always brighter before transgressing

Into the gray of dusk; as memories are —before they fade.

My presence illuminates my way. I close my eyes to see my path.

I close my mouth to listen for direction. I hear nothing

But my footsteps—

Until they fade—

I Smile in the morning.


Oh, pretty dandelion, yellow-er than gold!

There you are between stones and my footsteps;

Smiling at your announcement of spring

at my door step

In Center Sandwich, NH April 2017


Posted by on April 29, 2017 in Poetry


The Ballad Of Rosie [Draft 5]

Chimed in dangling silver earrings, wind in a tinkling song

Accompanied her blue eyes shading the sun; her beauty unable to blind you.

Rosie sang and Rosie danced laughing and smiling on and off again.

Rosie was an outlaw riding hard and fast

In a rhythm as smooth and as beautiful as her outlaw’s name.


“Come ride with me”, she said, “We’re going to rob a bank!

And you are just slim enough to make it through the rain.

“Whoa” I said, thinking, “I’m not so sure. Can we meet halfway?”

Just then, the dust picked up and side by side, we both rode away.


 We were getting to the borderline of her way or mine,

I was hoping for a signal that could help me make up my mind.

As she spoke and as I rode, I let my horse lead me as I followed.

We clipped and clopped into a sleeping gold rush town

 And when we left with muffled hoofs

Its bank vault was hollowed, except for the coins.


Chimed in dangling silver earrings, wind in a tinkling song

Accompanied her blue eyes shading the sun; her beauty unable to blind you.

Rosie sang and Rosie danced laughing and smiling on and off again.

Rosie was an outlaw riding hard and fast

In a rhythm as smooth and as beautiful as her outlaw’s name.


We hid in the mountains, we were married, and settled down.

The wood we cut by hand, going uphill with a two-person saw

And downhill with the wood on our shoulders or dragged behind

To the house where evening and morning fires were built.


The mountain was melted and warmed for you.

Children were born, there was no hurry.

We loved with patience, and became upstanding;

We stayed until they were grown.


Oh Rosie, time to settled this world down.

Winters came and went, every summer came to bloom.

I remember the last spring when you sang quietly

And softly danced. We saddled the horses

That fall when we both rode without remorse

Silently to the moon.

Klick, click, Giddy-up.


Chimed in dangling silver earrings, wind in a tinkling song

Accompanied her blue eyes shading the sun; her beauty unable to blind you.

Rosie sang and Rosie danced laughing and smiling on and off again.

Rosie was an outlaw riding hard and fast

In a rhythm as smooth and as beautiful as her outlaw’s name.

1 Comment

Posted by on April 16, 2017 in Poetry


Objects Above My Word Processor

The chief looking down upon the sand

Seeing marble and glass

Wishes me reflection


The fisherman looking above it all

Seeing everything equal

Wishes me balance


The Prophet caught up on a tree

Seeing all trespasses

Wishes me forgiveness


The ring that continues to encircle me

Sees nothing— it is seamless

Wishes me Love.


The bell begs every moment to ring or gong

Seeing silence

Wishes me to listen awakened


The level bubble needs no explanation.


Posted by on April 8, 2017 in Existential, Philosophy, thoughts, Zen


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The silver spoon

The silver spoon

Spilling gibberish, drool, and cream

In this morning’s Lobster Bisque

Screamed at him for not

Eating Cheerios in 1% milk

With silverware, or even

A plastic spoon.

(None would have to be polished

Rubbed by servants

And served, to feed

 Your fat reflecting face).

“We are both, growing worthless

In history” fading as it dripped

and slurped from

Puckering lips.


Posted by on April 4, 2017 in Existential, Poetry, Politics, thoughts


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Breakfast Before Their School‘s Mid-Terms

          In the foothills of New Hampshire, on the threshold of the White Mountains, the sun began to warm the valley. The warm spring morning sprayed glistening frost into fog. Another growing up season had passed. The children were getting dressed with some apprehension.

            I looked out the kitchen window and I could smell, feel spring, and see it lightly, loftily, taking its place. The morning greeted me with multiple shadows getting more confident and larger behind cereal bowls and warm buttered coffee cake.

Budding on branches

Spring’s new born generation

Peaks beyond shadow

dVerse~ Haibun Monday: The Shadow Knows 4/3/2017


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[Many scenes of consciousness with eight characters; One narrator, a Table of six Judges, (three Cyclops, three Angels) and one defendant.]

I Will Have The Last Word

(a scene)


In equal seats at the round table, each with a voice on the scale of justice,

Sat three Cyclops in disguise; wearing sunglass monocle and

Red tinted bald head rubber caps.

On the opposite side, three Angels sat with pleated wings of sea-gull feathers,

Waiting to argue for him but feeling queasy and unable.


All speaking in unison, “You have only a few words before the ultimate gavel

Echoes you, to a sentence of silence.”

“Do you understand? You only have a few words”,

 Repeated one of them, Under their breath

With a voice of compassion.


Everything that was bad or good,

Smiles and cries, and all those moments in-between,

Became reams of litigation suspended in litter.


Bound for this uncomfortable meeting,

 I showed up wearing only a t-shirt,

 Unshaven and a few items in a half empty paper bag.


I took my seat on a steel-gray folding chair

Without the cushion of a good history;

Braced with the events that allowed this chance, to convene.


Then, they began to strip-mine my life, looking and digging

Into the ground of my relatives, mentioning buried outlaws;

 Ancestors still connected to my bones.


All my errors descended into a million pieces of recycled confetti.

They dismissed every excuse to free me.

They found nothing of value, stating, they were unable to release me.


They discounted everything I had borrowed,

Insisting on their uselessness when I returned them.

I shouted above my ignorance:


“Dance, dance, dance you Cyclops, around my mistakes.

Fuel your caldron with distasteful acknowledgement,

Envy the situation that is not present.

And you! Preen your Angel feathers without dissent

With the oil of penance.”


(another scene)


Peering across the table, with silver cups in front of everyone

Except in front of him, he noticed in the center of the table,

A scarred brown plastic tray, sat one tin cup.

He grabbed it, banging the empty cup for their same drink

Insisting for a better portion and perhaps

forget this nightmare and let him go.

Let him go home.


 “What is it now, that everything is drunk?” Spoke one Angel.

“What is it now that you can savor?” Said one Cyclops,

Sipping his cup, on the opposite side of the table.

They all replied, in a confident anthem:

“We are all of the same dust. We are unbound, released from gravity

Without offense. Unlike you, sitting, fidgeting, now bound guilty

Before judgment.”



From this agenda, this torture

 I squealed, I rat-ed out and rolled on my ego.

               Confessing to be, in mind, an accomplice without heart.


 I pleaded “mercy” to the table exclaiming, “guilty!”


I swooned, I almost fainted. I felt the floor roll beneath me

Like silt in a receding tide.

Standing, grasping what became actually visible.


I kicked my chair from the table, sent it flying behind me.

I swept my space clean.



               An empty cup pinged to the floor spilling fear where it belonged.

The echo, stretched, crawling unsuccessfully to find the exit door.


Who am I now, as I try to rise above this table,

Trying to escape the infinite loop that leaves the measure of me to others?

Where swearing and praying becomes a side bar for approval or complaint.

They sit across from each other, saying the same things in redundancy;

Syllable after syllable, arriving at the same conclusion, using different words.


(another scene)


He quietly sat down across wingless angels and puffy black-eyed Cyclops.

Humbly took his assigned seat at a long aluminum rectangular table,

In the State, prison dining hall.

He placed his scarred brown plastic tray carrying a milk carton

And his scooped up meal.

Today is his first day; his first spoon towards a year and a day.

(One thousand and ninety-seven left).

Saturday night: he eats folded white bread dipped in beans

Savoring the franks. He will probably eat smelt on Fridays.



I see the end recoiling back, hiding in this cosmic dust

Of breath and conscience death, .Each moment for me is mine

Within a circle without chairs of decision or indecision,

Where forgiveness, atonement and contentment has to begin.

“I am not afraid.”



Those were his last words

 Before the gavel burst into unconsciousness.



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