simple things precisely said

it never gets dark here
we have stars and streetlamps
to keep us awake

headlights on the ceiling at 3am

I rise to a hoar frost
and the ground of my being is frozen

later there will be rain
and I will listen at the window

I like to hear about your baking
your day

simple things precisely said
that mean a lot
to one
so far away

complicated things
that you know how to make

sound easy

line breaks

I awoke unable to remember
how or why we write poems

or make these line breaks

alerting us to another way
of reading and seeing

now I remember

rainwater collecting in buckets
shines like something holy


dog on the bed
like a polar landmass in the spring
I would give anything
to be like you

yours is an empire of the skin
mine the meandering way within

an island off the compass of the world

go howl your howl
let it be heard

the price of light bulbs

you sit at your table writing
while I sit at mine
I’d like to have coffee with you sometime
a glass or two of wine
discuss the price of light bulbs
or the intricacies of verse

there are subjects far worse
such as love

it would all be with the greatest civility
though I cannot remain serious
for too long

I knew a girl once made me laugh so much
I could have wept

but now she’s gone
and I am undone

so here’s to you
and whatever it is you write
so feverishly
at your table

I am unable to stand the light
for much longer
at any price

[first posted Jan 10, 2016]


I sailed out
and not a sign of songbirds
I listened to the ocean
and its mournful sway

I have made an ark of my days
no graceful vessel
but a makeshift shelter
in which to stay 

I have made a wreck of my days
and would be done with it
but an ark is a cathedral
by another name

listen to the songbirds
in the cold grey water
songbirds perch
on the endless wave

songbirds sing
in clear blue water
gentle waters
sing for day

from another ocean 

tales were told at table

that night
and when it came to my turn

I said
why is it always my turn

and the answer came back
you’re the only one

so I recounted the days of my

which I missed grievously

and told
of sorrows and lost loves

and worse things
wearing my heart wide open

the story of the whale mother

to her stolen calf unceasingly

from another ocean

not even love

you said you’d show me a good time
but now it’s past time
and I’m uncertain of the days

my mother’s people came from Italy
but the limestone Auden praised
means not a thing to me

nor all the masters at top table
I’d like to name them
when I’ve had a few

they mutter sonnets in their soup again
they should be locked away
for what they did to me

we have no culture but the one we made
a gaudy hit parade
tinsel and after-shave

what is a good time anyway
you never did quite say
before you went

oh how the masters would lament
not even love is heaven sent


death was not so difficult
like falling from a plane

down through all the centuries
to learn it all again

and still I fall
fall and fall

until I learn
once and for all

to write with greater reach

write poetry in
the rhythms of common speech

headland 2

I often walk
this stony beach
uncomfortable upon the feet
but conducive to the mind
though I would rather not make rhymes
but wander to a place I know
around the headland
a mile or more
a little bay
a sheltered cove
where I arrange the stones
just so
bereft of any rhyme
or reason
hard to find
in any season
not on maps
nor in guide books
I only find
when I don’t look