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Since the first ambition I had for publishing was on a platform like this I've listed many efforts over the years. There's nothing to hide. A few I am, if not ashamed of, wary of. "Oh brother, you can do so much better!" But then we are human aren't we. I didn't view poetry as "entertainment" exactly but it has to enact well. That's all I insisted on and I didn't follow any proscribed way

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Picturing the Obscure Murder in the Meadow:1857

The Perfect Road

My Ocean

Ghosts

Maturing Poems

Wine Poems

2 New Poems

3 New Poems [anytime you see the Laughing Sun Ball click on it if you want to return to the poetry page.}


1975 - 1989

Poetry-in-the-Making

A Love Ditty

Excursions to the vineyards reveals a desire to run, slightly intoxicated, through the fields and feel the naked sun of their shoulder blade and backs.

And comes the man, the manager, all upset and waving his arms so they get up and go , the lover slapping his bare-ass to the portly and rose-colored man chasing them.

In a certain daylight the sun will manifest its spectral powers. The head and body are warmed to a lethargy that demands love to stir it.

Women drift from the tasting room with wan smiles; something is observing them and they are semiconscious of it.

An arid wind is captured between the sloping hills, taking down with it, while the sky darkens. The dreams contain the shame of lovers who do not want to be disturbed tonight. They do not want to see the faces that stir when the love-making ends. Silently, and with cruelty, the night permeates the empty heart as bare pants can be heard through an unending series of rooms.

The Love Ditty Archive

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POETRY BLOG

Choose a word to stop the world and the world will come chugging in at full throttle and doubt you with all its sincere speed and power.

Yet, there are ways.

And we see everywhere we've been and everyone we've seen. And still the bird rises above the clouds.

And beauty radiates from the rotations we have known.

We are pinned by some headlong necessity we identify as common with the wolves and anteaters.

The eyes are hungry for characters. They bleed from the back to the front.

Vast scenes of cities and beaches; the roaring roads of some happy fantasy. Connected to plots we scarcely believe in but there anyway. Brilliant dreams of happy madmen.

All right, let the starlight make bright and straight. Let it pole through right there, right now.

The Poetry Blog Archive