Poetry
Without wealth, I drift in the corner, dark-lit, to repose the waiter and other strangers, in polished black shoes and laces, old — look away to far off places lost beyond the skyline, I drop the cell phone on the table and raise a glass but not too high I
Poetry
Our apartment on 71 Phillips Street was located the Cambridge Street side of Beacon Hill where Cambridge runs into Charles Street. The Charles Street T-Stop is raised high, like a hanging island, above the sea of endless traffic during the daytime all around. The red brick homes of fame
Poetry
One-six-seven-eight like why you even tryin’, there’s no green on that road, just broken junk pavement, See with your eyes not like Thoreau, jump in my ride, Buddy let’s go, my homey, homey. Buckets bounce wildly widely, Side-to-side, air-jordan styled baby, that’
Poetry
Jump, jump — the girl got them freckles and them shining eyes, But I gotsta hide — her dad be wacky wild, Swinging that bat Dirty Harry style. She’s my P, little Klondi P — doesn’t know it yet – but Yah-keh, bringin’ sweethearts, candies to her door, doin’ it in
Poetry
Howling autumn crisp / robust flutter, foxes pensive, pounce / intense — eerie. this foggy water / wind brushes the maple, granite and schist, barriers ambient, snapping amphibians / silver riverine vocalizations, we bounce lightly. Creaking branches / groaning banks, formed by an ancient sea / rustle, the soil unearths / a pitch, whistling and shushing / sounds like
Poetry
The sky was a crisp blue hush, a Saturday in December, Logan Airport breathing frost, a Swissair plane with engines humming. We were late— dressed for field service, but Mark said “We’re going.” And so we went— the bus like a lost pilgrim circled the terminals, loop after loop,
Poetry
A tree is not lone, among stolid friends he thrives - acorns fall and roll. I received the card, no man meaningless when friends - torch wood logs in fire. Each flower and rose, each scent upon puckered lips - dissipate when done. There is still the pond, the people change, come and
Poetry
Rob the garland, strip the thyme, a patch of words laid out in rhyme, lute and pipe, and dancers swing, heartbeats thump, a reckoning. Branches stretch, on winds leaves fly, the harvester, his blade held high; with every stroke, each boy or king, is gathered in, left glistening. As the
Poetry
Oh Autumn, Autumn — how you shake and toss, like Homer’s breath against the rocks. You leave us dashed to windy days, to buckle senseless ’neath driving reins. Time scowls at us, but still, we bear some golden flowers, even if only for an hour.
Poetry
You were my home; I love you still, each block I walked, each park a thrill. A day to drift through Faneuil Hall, then Copley Square, where books line walls. A bike ride on the Esplanade, watch rowers glide, quartets applaud. You were my home, back then, and now— no
Poetry
It’s never easy / even when the road’s wide open / even when you tell yourself / you’re done. Hanover holds on / not loud / just a weight behind your ribs. The classrooms are still / chalk ghosts on slate / late sun curling on desks like memory. Dice clattered once / in a
Poetry
Come O twilight, on brightest heights, let northern stars, spread unbound, stretch, unlock us from the lee, so we will roam the grounds carefree. Like spirits cloaked we cross the Green, search classrooms, idle brevity, above, a moon, casts low its light, we reach the dock on foot at night.