Each blade of grass a miracle,
Each autumn leaf
a windblown sigh…

What vision spectacular
is not witness
to its Maker?

Each birth and death
a confirmation
of eternity,

Each new bloom
a continuation,
an evidence undeniable.

Who is so blind
to claim
He is unseen?

Sidestepping Paradise

1- The Cell Phone

the phone quit
something about analog outdated
sim card needed

a meeting convened
all i wanted was to order fried chicken
the secret recipe, but the phone was dead
They debated

at last the sky opened, rain fell gentle
on the place beneath, I wouldn’t have to buy
one, they’re making a donation.

I’m a skeptic, but I waited  They over-nighted.
forget the chicken it’s morning
sailor take warning…

In a rush it went the wrong direction
i dream of omelets and bacon
it left the station four hours away
and went south to Tennessee

forget the bacon,
I’ll settle for cereal, the phone
is on its way,  it will get here today
maybe …

twelve hours from now
or so, it will arrive, stores
will be closed, even the Greasy Spoon
must sometimes rest

dozing off I dream
a nightmare I think…it arrives
in the dead of night,

I’m sleeping
dreaming of omelets and bacon
and the sacrifice the pig is making
compared to the chicken.

The door bell rings
but not where I am, the phone,
it must be the phone, but
I’m sleeping


To an Oak

Wind-shook, gnarled tree,
bastion of Earth’s slow breath
and Spring’s sap rising,
you are brave
and I, at best, am brief.
There are no such things
as small deaths. Dreams
die hard; wisdom
is a slow learning.
Having long since flown
the nest, I return at last
to embrace these roots.

A Saga of Poetry and Plums (and Vodka)

With friends out of town,
she acquired their allotment from the co-op,
Bags and bags of vegetables and fruit, too much
for one alone to eat before the natural sugars conspired
to decay.

Unsure of how to keep them,
she thought of the W.C. Williams poem
Those plums ‘were delicious, so sweet, and so cold
The decision was made to chill
the slightly overripe delights.

Considering the plums that Williams wrote,
a minor fixation developed.
Concerned about bruising,
she arranged them in egg cartons,
then checked them daily for deterioration.

Round and plump,
they seemed happy with her ministering.
She was not oblivious to the connection.
I ask you, who could eat plums
that show such appreciation?

Alas, even with love
there is aging and there is not a lot of information
about saving such splendor. Thank you, Lord,
for Wiki How To. It said: When infused with Vodka
even old plums bloom.

The better the brand, the better the fruit,
so she Googled. Yamskaya seemed a bit pompous
for her precious plums. Black Onyx, though lovely,
was somewhat somber. By then, already a little fuzzy
(or was that the plums?)

she stumbled upon Wheatley. Regal,
but unpretentious with its American heritage,
it was slightly spicy and oh, so satisfying. It went down smooth,
then begged another sip, and then another. It wasn’t long
before both she and the plums were stewed

and the poetry acquired a new bloom.


written after reading Of Plums and Iceboxes by Sadie Stein
The Paris Review, August 27, 2015

(editorial suggestion…enjoy the plums, avoid the vodka)



A Kind of Hush

Overcast, subdued, a preview of Fall
fills the air with a sense of silence,
Though emerald still swathes the hills, it’s easy
to picture maples draped with new flame.

Wild geese will soon vee, merely ritual
as they winter here, comfortable
with the abundance of green leaf and kernel,
ancient instincts for migration quelled.

This world is waiting for technicolor
of turning leaves and the great pumpkins
complacent in their burgeoning ripeness,
silently hoping to become pie

or jack-o-lantern, the best on the block.
Everything has dreams, even August
in increase when  subtle stilling of day
hints change, an awareness ere we sleep.

A Disordering of Time

In the murky waters of a museless night
we flail against a stagnant current.
No raging river holds us back, no storm
consumes. It is not energy that we fear
but the lack of it; not too little time
but its abundance.

The void stretches onward;
the ink’s stimulus is anywhere but with us.

We search for memories we’ve stored within;
the window calls us to its gaze
and in that moment a remembered moon
sets us down again with pen in hand to write
of yesterday through the occluded lens
of this moonless night.

The Land of Dreams


Round and rimmed with glee,
the moon’s face is no mystery tonight.
He’s just a happy old man
surrounded by his children,
those Van Gogh stars that adore him.

Such sparkle they make;
it’s a regular light show convention,
The sky is a domed ceiling
that shelters the like
of the contented and splendid.

Beneath the benevolence
of a sable night, a mother hums
the tune of a sleeping song
to her restless son.
Each note rises light as a feather

enlisting heaven
to sprinkle the boy with stardust.
His chubby fingers
twine through the mane of Pegasus
as off they fly to the land of dreams.

The Sentinel Ever Vigilant, Ever Strong

Earth swaddled
in the bliss of moonbeams,
free from clocks
and all but gravity,

swathed in the gauze
of night wind’s song,
drinks the sweet elixir
of a new day’s dew.

Cat paw quiet,
the light of morning inches in,
turning off the dark
with shades of pink to gold.

The melody of a hermit thrush
in harmony with dawn’s symphony,
reassures the world…
The Maestro is not sleeping.