Category Archives: Poetry

Lightning never rings the doorbell It’s more the unanticipated guest A nocturnal moving of your favored cheese Or an arresting act of God

I will be the one who holds you I will have your back I will never disappoint you, baby Never jump the tracks

I looked down at my feet I hadn’t counted on three Inches of compact snow

I have filled my frontal lobe With facts and figures Which have brought me to the edge Of inanity There’s something missing

A monument to movies’ gilded mage Stands in a vaunted, vaulted sepulcher. The sculptor—like the critic, just as sage— Has chiseled (as Scott’s learnèd pen) assured.

This is the house that Jack built At the end of a long drive It stands apart from its neighbors At home with its solitude And its singularity

Once upon a time Artur Rubenstein sat before a Steinway or a debauched Bechstein and contemplated a nocturne. Chopin’s soul spoke to him

sleeping on the ground is more relaxing—and safe— when the ground sleeps, too

I can see it all very clearly:        I am on my knees        in a field of grain.