A pocketful of pithy poems …

The raft of

the poem rocks

as I spear-fish

for the right words.

Her dreams — a young horse,

raising dust, growing smaller

on the horizon.




the ice maker gives birth.

Monarch butterfly —

stained glass portrait in flight —

Spring’s invocation.

Birthdays …

more frequent,

less punctuated.

Turtles on the pond bank

asking the Spring water to warm,

the willows heard every word.

the Church prayer list

held his name, now six hands

lift his casket.

Young cricket

in the watering can

answering himself.

Blessed is the one

whose pants fit right!

A mouthful of bite-sized poems

Fashioned with

a mustache

of spindly ferns,

and a beard

of mossy stones,

the hillside spring

whispers year round.

Sages, ripe with sense,

our forefathers

would not have bothered

with books

about growing

a better beard!

Our dogs —

fierce hunters

of belly rubs.

Over the years

the stone

bloomed lichens

in silhouetted circles.