Directions to Where We Live : Momentary Images Framed


Suspended in the void

Unable to reach across

 light years separate us

Oh, how lonely we shine,

Stretching out bright

fingers in the dark

Accidental Awareness

tiny brittle wine glass


                             by a heavy bowl




spread over

                     the gleam of linoleum

next to the dish drainer

picking up the offending

                                                 innocent bowl

            a shadow lingers



the hard glitter

                      of icy dust


A fine snow dust

Scattered on the glass table

outside the kitchen window


buds begin to show on the early trees

Spring more than a month away

struggles for a foothold on Winter’s slippery perch

My dreams– black and white

in this cold season’s fade and creep

 slight movements of gray

 angles of shadow

slowly shrinking with the snow

One Good Simple Thing

There are things in life

 that take the hardness out of the world

for a moment

Ghostly music seeps in from another room

makes me stop

She is singing again, and I cannot move

I   cup my mind around this whisper of flame

The slightest puff of air will chase it into the night

and leave the world colder for its loss

How to Be a Fool

Most likely you are standing

or moving on a well beaten path

right now look down

   thousands of footprints

in the mud and dust,

or up at the sky and trees overhead

see without time

a moment in space

 only you can speak

A Day at the Office

in the morning my basement office cool
gray light filtered through
bright stalks of grass growing
against the little panes.

The day, absent minded old man
grumbles and storms a little
And then clouds stretched almost blue
For a few straining minutes.

green evening  and rabbits on the lawn nibbling
clouds breaking into pools of pale sky
The meadow is silently moving in furtive breezes
Or a stealthy predator circling

Peace is a Place

Watch as you step
there will be a place
to put your feet

Somewhere between
the sun and moon
a star will shine

Mount your horse of water
raise your cup into the circle sky
the path will be clear before you

A sword gleaming
in the distant dark
will lead you home

Moments in a Long August Day


I stand in the office.

sunlight comes in through two windows

one behind me and one to my right.

My hand is moving away from the book I just put down.

A woman talks fast and loud.

She swivels around in her large office chair to face me.

I see the slight curved wrinkles at the corners of her eyes.

The hum of computers is there underneath her voice.

The words come fast, so fast they can’t mean anything.

One metal prong, curved as it comes up from the file,

reflects itself in the straight tilted end.

My finger and thumb closed together nearby.


I sit tilted forward, leaning over a yellow file folder,

black lines hard on the yellow.

Someone talks behind me in loud, dry, tones

rough rocks moving together.

The whispery hum of computers still underneath it all.


Both of my hands lightly grip the black steering wheel.

Through the windshield I see a narrow two lane road rising in front. Trees form a solid wall of shifting green in many shades, leaves glittering as the breeze moves them.

Dark green leaves against the bright yellow of a house.

In the distance a hillside,

a patchwork forest against the cloud washed sky.


I am counting pieces of plum colored printer paper.

The sound of a drill comes from under my desk.

A man is on his back head and shoulders hidden by the desk.

legs lay apart flat on the floor.

Someone reads an Email about impending change.


I sit on a couch

paperwork on a coffee table.

A man looks from me over to his 3 year old son.

He says something in Punjabi.

The boy nods his head and replies in clear singing tones,

also in Punjabi.

“He says that he wants to go to school now,”

the man says.

“He is ready.”

The boy smiles at me.

I smile back.


The light is green.

I steer the car through the intersection

up the hill.

“What was that beep?” asks my son.

“It was just my watch.”


I am walking toward a parking lot with only a few cars here and there. My wife, who walks next to me, tells me some ideas she has about college and her career.

Across the parking lot

enormous trees,

spreading, chaotic oak, symmetrical pines, narrow cottonwoods are scattered about an undulating field of short cut brown tinged grass.


I sit at a glass table on a second story deck in the cool stretched shadows of an ancient furrow barked hemlock.

A bowl of minestrone steams

It is too hot to eat.

I take a bite of jicama, sweet, crisp, and wet.

My wife talks about her work and change.


The headlights shine on the bushes and telephone pole as I steer the car around the corner

Up the street and down into the driveway.

My daughter sings with the radio.

I turn off the car.


All is still.



A dark cloud of pain,

she sweeps in

disturbing the rhythm of the current

leaving eddies

swirling ghosts with open mouths yawning

Her body shrinking

in knots of fury

The child, I release into that storm

is immediately lost in the tide.

she follows, carelessly

“It is the only life I know how to live,”

she shrugs with her last look back.

I sit alone

swallowed by a trailing ghost.

I Will Sing You A Silent Song

Where is my joy?

In quiet songs

deep in the pattern of wood grain

Talk is my fear

Words are ripped from my thoughts

by idiot devils

shredding of bits with their jabbering claws

When I talk

The music is no longer

in a night full of cricket buzz

Fire crackle

your hand just touching the back of my neck

One More Day

Another chance to move

about in this small space,

Sweep a corner clear

Chalk an outline of where

I will fall

With small

Adjustments that amount to

millions of still frames

most of which I will


keeping only the ones that

mean the least

flat transparent images

unable to hold feeling

as if  belonging to someone else

 like me seen

from a distance

flickered movements strobed

onto my mind screen

an eyeball

a razor, a black-bearded man in a

tutu endlessly repeated

infinitely varied

until all possibilities are


Receiving Messages From Separate Individual Realities


grabbing a handful porcupine jello

the space contained in a floating soap bubble

lips vibrating, tongue clicking, throat coughing

strangled groan


shuffle leap into the blinding wall

How can each voice be different and call us on

into what might be oblivion?

Could it be

life is in voices speaking

not to be understood, but felt.

Feel the song of edges

Knife and saw, feather and leaf,


vibrate and tilt

until something not yet solid shakes

into the peripheral field

Don’t look! it is not for seeing.

Don’t listen! it is not a sound.

Feel it there, not in words

but whispers of grunting fetishes

ground into a powder

taken by the wind.

sticks in the eyes stinging,

muffles the ears

leaves us arms stretched out waving about

frantically for something


to hang on to

In Motion

Hard Round forms undercut

grasps and clings to darker patches

Locked in the knot

unable to fall back

slowly spread onto cushion night

steel light beyond

the glint of a blade

shivers of radiance

on waves at dawn

blood in my body stretches

a taught band struck

quivers a note

fades lower into silence

shifting of feet on gravel

dimly deeper, the path appears as I step

balanced on the thin edge of now

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