Poetry
Poetry
Millionaire’s Spring Delight
Yesterday, had I been a millionaire able to hire a gardener or two, I — I still would have knelt in the earth and brushed back the crunchy leaves, to see, touch, oh! green shoots of new garlic. Yes, pruned scratchy rose bushes sucked blood from my thorn-stabbed thumb; cut back the lower aspen branches, plucked
The Life of Colorado
Arches carved by nature’s knife Bluebells bursting into life Columbines the bloom of state Deer tracks cloven hooves create Elk herd standing tall with pride Fox pups posting side by side Ghost town eerie without sound Hay bales scattered on the ground Icicles sharp as frozen quills Jagged mountain hiking
Gwynne
for Gwynne Stolle in loving memory In her garden, as in mine, the earth is let be earth, and flowers grow where flowers will, not where she wills them to. In her garden, as in mine, light falls through the green it’s made, softened, dappling everything below it, even me and the dogs. In her
Ornithology
People remember Charlie Parker Rode into Minton’s on a horse Dressed in overhauls Lip drooping a piece of straw. People remember Charlie Parker Hocking his alto for a fix Living just anywhere Raving out of control down a rainy street. People remember Charlie Parker Worked with the higher extensions Of the chords, worked with strange
Ike’s Moebian Putting
He leans against an invisible wall upright, his head cocked lawnward. It is Ike standing over the ball Patient, his knickers immaculately laundered. He lets his wrists do the work. The arc of the putter’s head is minimal. He never presses or jerks. His putting style is inimitable. His haberdashery has reverted to that of
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Novels and Collected Works
All the Time
I like to stand outside in the winter night, a glass of gin in my hand, and watch the sky go by above me, half moon a white lemon with its companion star, the star two stars, then one if I concentrate while the clouds veil and unveil it all, and my focus shifts between
Keep Moving
Just keep moving, across the open field and into the woods. Don’t look back until you reach the sea. Run until your lungs are ready to burst and every nerve shoots red-hot fire through your lost body, the soft sand under your feet, the salty air welcoming you home to the only place you understand,
Iranian Revolution 2026
In the old bazaars of Shiraz—where once the merchants weighed saffron by the gram—the fires now illuminate not spice, but anger. A boy, barely sixteen, lights a rag in a glass bottle. He’s not a thug, he’s a student who hasn’t seen meat in months. He’s not burning the bank for fun—he’s burning it for
A Poem on the Wind
A poem on the wind lands wherever it’s taken, whether in your thoughts or mine, or on the dry red soil, glittering in the summer heat. I can see the last of the species scribbling away in a fevered dream as the sun burns the ground, furnace in the lungs, vivid colors flooding the mind,
Looking for Real
The world I have come to know is just an artificial display of holographic shapes gliding across my line of sight and disappearing into nothingness, tedious reflections in a dull mirror. But every so often, someone comes along who is dramatically different, a living, breathing person, warm, radiant, true, and connected to my inner experience.