27 October 2010



i'm overwhelmed
your poetry comes crashing on my shore
i beg for more

i tuck away emotion
but the motion of the sea
untucks me

i'm blinded gladly
your sunlight beams upon my soul
rays of gold

i'm overcome
with joy and love; it's harmony
it's you and me

i kiss your hand
you understand, i am amazed by you
my love is true

caught in your spell
i'm entranced by the words you weave
you are my eve

drawn by your wit
and my chords you resonate
queen to mate

theatre three

26 October 2010

excerpts from "The Actor"

Jacob Goldsmith was revered in the region, humble as he was, as one of the greatest dramatists in the area. His annual presentation of A Miser's Miracle was the social event of the year for many. They were drawn by the amazing scenes, the fabulous performances, and magical effects that they felt rivaled those of Broadway, a mere fifty miles away. For this was not a professional theatre by any stretch; the seats were held together with duct tape and old gauze, and the bare wall showed through where paint had chipped away. Here was a theatre that existed solely for the love of theatre and not the love of money.

For thirty years the master studied these characters, now firmly rooted, ubiquitous in his mind, though every year he discovered something new about each, and their relations to his own character might change as did his understanding.

He told the old American story of the miser who lives by himself and shuns society, refusing to make charity or embrace change. One evening he awakens to find his bed floating above the earth, transported to some foreign land. He meets people along the way who remind him of himself, and of his former youth; it opens his heart. When he returns to his bedchamber he is a new man, and he opens his coffers to help the poor and needy and throws his arms gratefully around his fellow man.

Jacob sneered and the beggar children approached him. “This is America,” he growled, pointing a gnarled finger. “Let them work for their own money.”


13 October 2010

oct 2008

this is a poem about a shirt, written for April nearly two years ago.

my gift to you
wrapped in brown corduroy
sorry if it broke in shipping
it's taken time to arrive
there's only so much corduroy can defend
or contain

my gift to you
sometimes just brown corduroy
something soft and warm
to remind you what's inside
a symbol of something we share
its text, a fabric we've weaved
enduring ever on

my gift to you
within its brown corduroy
for which only you, it seems, can sign
only you can open it
and dance around inside

wear my gift, please
my joy is in giving
love me, please
and let's start living

11 October 2010


Marco pushed his spreader up and down the hills around the buildings of the complex. The grass was green and a chilled wind tousled it as he walked, sweating. He had the areas around buildings 4 and 5 to do, then across the parking lot to building 14, where there were some patches of yellow grass from the dogs. The day was gorgeous, but Marco didn't care; it would get done either way.

The fertilizer was also a pesticide, something to get rid of the vermin before it went inside where it was warm and wet, before the chill set in for good and drove the insects to look for more hospitable places to burrow and gestate. Marco didn't care; it was something he had to do, and he'd make sure it was done, no matter what.

another short installment of Love Song

Read part 2 here.


At the bar, he drank his bourbon rocks and ordered my gin and tonic. In his head he was working out some new song, perhaps, or mulling over a new way to play an old tune. I squeezed my lime and stirred slowly, looking around the bar. The young bartender was nice enough; she poured fast and heavy, and winked as she walked away. She wore a tight white top tied on with shoestrings, and a large cowboy hat with upturned sides on her straight dirty blonde hair. I stared at her a bit, but the great singer kept to his liquor and thoughts.