Poetry
As we go splashing by And in between the puddles I will hold your hand. And in a moment when The quiet stretches across The valleys you will sit With me. Down roads and through cities We will know our names And the rain will fall gently. When I look
Poetry
I left our classroom early to find A spot on the breakwater quiet and still. Upon the cold, desiccated granite sit I And empty my pockets; some bait, a dollar bill, And an old pocketknife used to carve in your name, But like the ocean unknown - your lure just the
Poetry
O lazy sleeper harvest here, how can thee dream of heaven’s hall? Sharpened threshers come ever near, still the painting on the marble wall. Since He speeds fast, our faces shall be still and shine within the light. O lazy sleeper harvest here, rise up and work the fields
Poetry
Set your détente high on the hill! The senators who cry out, While the idle paisano hails, The citizen in arms who rides. Headlong to dust, with horseweed That hangs from lips blistered with boils, From the ongoing heat of the lip burning sun. Kicking up particles that scratch squinted
Poetry
Huddled, our faces, flickering like a candle, Before the piled wood, fallen pine cones, Where in starry arms the night does dandle, Those now going off, the drowsy hours, To woodland roads alone. Place our moccasins by the maple tree, Her every leaf and twig and flower, Her bright red
Poetry
Look at her sleek frame, the one you know, the one who beckons you in May. Full of sweet perfume, which sweeps down slow, she tingles rose petals in childish play. Glance upon her iron beams, steps to her top enumerate, while Paris daisies illuminate and supple legs intoxicate. Spirits
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,