Congratulations: Your poem, Age, has earned Honorable Mention in the 2017 Steve Kowit International Poetry Contest. Your poem will be published in the next edition of the San Diego Poetry Annual, due out on March 1, 2018. A PDF of the annual will be available for free reading and downloading in February 2018 on our… Read More Age
The more I write, the more I am taken with it, the magic of the word. Turn the wrist, hold out a balm. Flick, and you have a blade. To be able to put out one, two, three words for a title and draw people in; convince them to pause in their hurried steps and… Read More Writing 101: Sacred and Simple
Poets are strange – Why can’t they just call the spade a spade? And what’s a rock but rock: sandstone, shale from the tiredness of weather? Coal and limestone, plant and animal dross — but nature wastes nothing. Why do poets look for metaphors under every rock, the walls that hold the creek, earth that… Read More Poets Are Strange
stargazers in furious bloom – vanilla air – are the only flowers that trust me, tell me i am not hopeless; the juice in their veins, the way they gulp the sun and meet my face, their beauty and their business say i don’t need a green thumb and the riotous garden. all one needs… Read More stargazers
Birdless sky swells grey blue against trees that stand like brushes stiff in the cold The penultimate breath of a new earth The dark disappears in a steadfast philanthropy of color: red, orange, rose blush up from the land over lakes and hills and roof slats to tell the inhabitants Night has not prevailed. Earth … Read More A New Earth
we felt so grown up when we were kids and now wonder that we are so old when we’re not yet grown we started losing our parents to time and frailty. in the cycle of life things go upside down sometimes you rush d o w n the rabbit hole into a world… Read More midnight in wonderland
By the second week I learned that Texans sweat as much as the French, and swear even more, that you couldn’t fight one twin without taking on the other. But the librarian would slip me the choicest donated fiction, and I played baseball every day in the vacant lot until sundown called the players home to black… Read More Bonjour, Texas: Summer 1966
How do I miss thee? Gasp! Let me count the ways. I miss thee to the deep, the space, and skies My soul can reach as I strain for my prize, For the ends of thought and ideal phrasings. I love thee with the ease of every day’s vernacular In most quiet need to velvet… Read More Ode To My Blog
A Holistic Journey 