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These poems are all recent, and will be updated regularly.


Handwriting On the Wall


They say it makes no sense to teach longhand,

instead the young use keyboards for their text.

Pen and paper now remote as quill and stand,

technology is what the writer’s voice directs.


And I myself put all my thoughts on screen,

where once they lived between a pad’s blue lines,

but all the years and changes that I’ve seen

cannot obscure the penmanship once mine.


Those hours passed in sweeping loops and slants,

sole letters linked in thoughts eliciting

a hope that something beautiful might chance

to be revealed when mute desire learns to sing.


And though the page is now a glowing screen

the writer still must scribe what it will mean.




The city began to swirl

and faces around me

blurred. I held a pole

waiting for my stop

not far away. I fell


to the floor of the bus,

people surrounding -

“Are you all right?

Shall we call 9-1-1

Can you stand up?”


My old determination

became a planetary core,

surrounded by noxious

gasses of confusion.


The cold, dirty floor

whispered in my ear,

lift your head, stand up,

this isn't your stop, yet.


But I had to get off, sit

on the wood bench, alone,

fresh air icing the sweat

drenching my thin shirt.


I thought of those people

who wanted to help me,

whoever I was, whatever

was happening to me.


Never have I felt more

anonymous in this city

that I thought knew me,

never so transparent.


It was no big deal, no heart

attack or major crisis. Some

time in bed and I'd be fine.

that scary fever broken


by memory of that day,

the concerned faces, soft

voices, helping hands, sharing

my bus to downtown nowhere .