By the Fire












Sit with me by a fire beneath the stars

Babble wild thoughts to me

Without pretense or purpose

Without yesterday or tomorrow

Speak words through the eyes of an infant knowing neither when or what, before or after

Let me drink your thought like a parched drunkard gulps wine

Intoxicate me

Stumble about in naked divinity

Seek not north or south, east or west


This ship heeds no compass rose

Upward drifting on a wisp of smoke

Twisting towards a point of blackness between the stars

To the place infinity calls home

Laugh like fools in fits and gasps

Cheeks running, streams of joy

Flowing into the cupped hands of a child

Plunge into the sweet bath

Dance wildly til the dust of philosophy and dirt of theology turn to mud between our toes

The child smiles

Mother to infant

She draws infinity into a single breath

Heaven bursts from her lips as she giggles with delight

Her name is Innocence

Plough & Stars

And there was a tall waterfall in the sky facing eastward down Mass Ave.

Framed by blocky buildings.

Contrasted against concrete and asphalt at my feet.

Pink and tangerine torrents in pastel shades painted childlike on the horizon.

Tumbling, back lit, billowing, sweeping in wild windblown waves over slate gray slopes.

Wispy clouds set in motion, being nothing, being beauty.

Breezes blow chilled now, though the vista warms my watering eyes within.

On this dirty sidewalk I stand.

Scrap of yellow page in hand.

Painting  pictures with pen.


What are they?

Poor ink scratched symbols in vain chasing heaven.

What are they to be?

Awash in garbled sounds.

Slapping footsteps hurried upon pavement.

Such indifference.

Indifference amplified, beneath and by, below the face, of mother natures beauty and grace.

Me, My Journal, You

Cover torn open wide

Burst from darkness

Bright light

Cold, blinding intensity

Naked, lying in beings cold bath


Touch, warmth, comfort follows

Tender graceful pen strokes

Calligraphy purring softly to paper

Sweet milk pouring into purity

Pages, sinless perfection


Time moves in turn

Fresh pen strokes fall

With weight now, heavy hands deliver

Down pressing hard

Scratching strokes

Pushing deep

Thrusting into, onto pages within

Invisible as indelible


Dark becoming light

Cold comfort warmth


Enter now this ink walled maze

Etched by a thousand pens

Twisting this way, turning that

One atop another

Scratches deep

Disconnecting, disconcerting


Lost though found


Calligraphy, sweet calligraphy


Time draws taught a moment to ask

Another page or peace profound

Ephemeral, Eternal

Passion, purpose tomorrow

Poison today


Times hand quivers

Page present, pages past, bellow and bawl

Calligraphy whispers a clarion call

Mine is yours

These pages deep

Those anew are those to keep

Fall Colors

What if I did disappear into that leaf?

It's a very colorful leaf, you know?

Perhaps I did disappear into it while walking from the library.

The leaf blended well those about it.

They in turn blended well with the building behind.

As my footstep fell toward it my mind stepped into it.

Joined the scene, embracing warmth, slanting sunshine sliding between high October clouds.

My mind became content, warm with one within.

As my footstep fell further so my mind left the leaf.

Fluttering to rest upon the cool damp turf.

Mother Earth quickly tilled, turned returned it to me.

A smile.

You, your voice

You, your voice

So familiar, though very distant

Speaking to, seldom from

Hear you, adrift in the fog

Rolling across the calm

Perfect calm

Echoes of essence whisper

Me, may you embrace me

Do I know you shouts me

Who might you be

Are you me

From where are you from

Where do you go when me is without you

You, your simple tongue delights me so

Enchants me

Are you a child

Child of me

Am I a child

Me of you

If me listens, if me follows you

Will you leave me lost


Will you join me found


Mindfulness, mindlessness mired in self serving ignorance.

Itís within me, I donít like it.

Births sin of innocence, born of lesser conception.

Babes boiled in its stew from birth.

Dabbed dry with star spangled bunting.

Pressed like paper cutouts between pages of verse contrived by prophets and saints.

Itís not me, though it clings to me.


Mine is a generation born in a box stamped postage paid to heaven.

Hand delivered by corpses over streets stained with blood.

It stinks.

Rot, rotting at heavens gate,

The stench perfumed by pious pretenders, pretending for whom?


I drank wine last night, broke bread, and then pissed on a parched thistle because I could.

The following morning the thistle thanked me by growing green with gratitude for my drops of dew.

That evening it flowered, full of grace.


I pissed on it once again for daring to grow green in my garden.

The following morning the thistle set seeds sailing, each a soldier to settle upon the soil, each green with gratitude, full of grace.


Contemplations' Crumbs

Crumbs for the hungry adrift in the heavens.

Each tethered to time on eternities strand.

Constellations clear light, contemplationsí candle to follow.

Light for the darkness of a practical stage.

Dimensions within, from without, from inside us?

Philosophiesí food grown in firmaments fields.

Astronomers gaze as math runs with numbers, connecting the crumbs with tethers unseen.

Itís a search for the real within realityís closet with no compass or sexton before billowed sails.

Where contemplation dares dream, practicality follows, towed by times tether along temptationís trail.

Sea Glass

Sea glass smooth upon the beach.

Amethyst, amber, cobalt treats.

Towed by tides along the sands.

Tossed by storm swells, ancient strands.

Sparkle, sparkle sunshine sweet.

Neptunes' treasures, yours to seek


My dear friend the Junco

The junco is the first to rise.

Before the sun lights winter skies.

While Venus twinkles in the east.

They scratch and scuff with little feet.

Without a sound they scour the ground.

Slate grey feathered tiny clowns.

In search of seeds and berries sweet.

Their presence is my morning treat.



Weathered eyes upon the sea.

A hole in the sand where a house used to be.


Kissed by the sun on many a morn.

Lashed by storms, hurricane torn.


Weathered and true, shuttered in grey.

Generations pass, tides through the bay.


Beaches alive.

Children a buzz.

Seagulls call.

Songs from above.


Southward Isles

Timeless strands.

Glacial trails, stone and sand.


Northward creeks through marshes weave.

Tidal flats and cedar trees.

Shifting sands on sunsets door.

Simple joy.

No less.

No more.


October on Langwater


Places drawing me back through tears over smiles.

Memories bring faces.

Reflections on water.

Eyes lit by sunset.

Moments mirrored with a rising moon.


Vivid on October trees.

Each glowing leaf an outburst of memory.

Intense as alive.

Time once spent.

Life investment.

Coming to fruition.

Coming to naught.

Do you know?

Do you long for an answer?

The question?

The something?

These people?

These places?

This poem?

It's here.


Between sun rays and moonbeams.


Hiding in shadows.

Dancing in dreams.

As the crow flies

Clocks hands slipping silently forward.

Motion pulled taught on times invisible plain.


Moments twining together.

Essence of two woven as one.

Finger tips softly wander, seeking forever.

Lonely snowflakes look on through frost draped panes.

Flickers of her flame tread tenderly on my spine.

Sensation bare.

Glowing warmth teasing chilled senses, forgotten.


I do hope to see her again.

That is what I now think while alone gazing out a different pane at lonely snow draped trees.

Fifty miles from Cambridge as the crow flies.

Slowly counting nine on my fingers.

Nine days since that Saturday night.

Nine cold days removed from the luxury of her.

Yes, her.

No more, No less.

The sum of which is contentment.

I like the sound and feel of that.


I miss her.

There, I just said it out loud.

I miss her.

Can you hear me?

Can I be done now?