small songs I sing
to join
my voice to other voices
hidden in the grass

Sunday, February 12, 2017


closing behind me
the blue door of a dream
I hear the words
don’t forget the absolute
yet love the leaves & branches

and shafts of silver light
in the pine wood
the owl glides through both
with unruffled wings

of the last bright leaf
of ego
my bones sing harmony 
with the winter wind

~red lights 13:1, Jan. 2017

Wednesday, February 8, 2017

The Forge

I had a ring once, made from a horseshoe nail.  Made for me by an Irish blacksmith, a wiry little man with a musical brogue, sinewy forearms, and a leather apron. He’d cradle a hoof on his knees and trim away the horny overgrowth with giant nippers, tossing aside the parings for the dogs to gnaw. Then he’d choose a cold shoe and slap it on, sizing it up with an expert eye.

The acrid smell of coal smoke . . . I can hear the whoosh of the bellows, see the flames blaze up as he waits for the iron shoe to glow red-hot. He holds it edgewise on the anvil with long-handled tongs and beats it into the perfect shape for this particular hoof, bouncing his hammer in a ringing diminuendo after each blow: BANG BUTabutabuta, BANG BUTabuta . . . He plunges the hot shoe into a bucket of water and fits it, still sizzling, onto the hoof, nailing it in place with just a couple of blows for each of the nails he holds handy between his lips. He clinches the nail points and shifts his shoulder to the mare’s flank.  I study my battered store-bought sneakers and inhale the heaven scent of hay.

the last syllables
into place . . .
the rhythm of hoofbeats,
the lift of white wings

~Haibun Today June 2015

Friday, January 27, 2017


the labyrinth
with a broken broom
I gather at the center
a thousand winged seeds

~Skylark 3:2, winter 2015

Friday, January 20, 2017

Digging In

Inauguration Day 2017

at midnight I reread
the poet’s words:
what rough beast
slouches toward Bethlehem . . .*

one by one
the doors slam shut—
I tunnel
into the night sky
a wormhole to hope

clasping hands
with women black
and brown
like silent moles
we turn the Earth

Monday, January 16, 2017


dark energy
pushing space itself
apart . . .
a ribbon of birds
wheels across the winter sky

~GUSTS 21, spring/summer 2015

and the silver speck
of a jet 
winging into the distance. . .
the curve of the earth in my arms

~red lights 12:1, Jan. 2016

Friday, January 13, 2017


the music
of tiny waterfalls
in midwinter
I follow a newborn brook
singing wherever it leads me

~GUSTS 23, spring/summer 2016

I sing
my thinking mind
to sleep—
a deeper way of knowing
wells up like music

~red lights 12:2, June 2016

Monday, January 9, 2017

the why . . .

a redbird
hunting crumbs in snow—
the child’s first glimpse 
leaving unanswered
the why of bright wings

 ~red lights 12:2, June 2016

breaking ice
from a frozen rut
I skim
the silver shards
into the windswept sky

~Eucalypt 20, May 2016

Sunday, January 8, 2017

winter sounds

a slant of sun
across the snowy wood . . .
in crystal stillness
the barred owl’s voice
closer than breathing

~Atlas Poetica 24, spring 2016

the sound
of leafless trees in winter . . .
in the melody
to draw a breath

~Skylark 4:1, summer 2016