A moment was all but in
that moment she appeared
shimmering in the eye
of the universe.


How quickly the dream
is fading.


The walls had
originally been white
but years had turned
them yellow or gray
with bright sienna
in areas exposed
to the rain.

Behind the panes of black
wooden framed windows
a bed on the right
table on the left
sat one small clay
pot of flowers.


We sing of stones

bright colored
beneath autumn sun
and our voices
rise in the telling.



We wrapped ourselves
in clear August darkness
a fine silk scarf
against the alone.

Our paired skin relished
a sweet cool zephyr
that had quietly slipped
through darkened leaves
and into spaces
between us.

It wasnt love.
Just company on a warm
and quiet summer night.

Two sweet midnights
spent in comfort and kisses
on a soft sleeping bag
under a slowly
spinning sky.

We were
in the brush.

Sleeping by a stream
and waking early
she left me dreaming
and that's as it should be.


Will you walk with me?

Not far.

Just to the end
of the conversation.


I want to live where there are horses.

To wake with the smell of hay and shit
and walk out into a damp morning
before the air becomes heavy
with the noise and business of life.

The sounds of horses comfort me
neighs and whinnies
stomp of a foot in moist earth.



Small and delicate yet
how easily it sheds
its pungent garment
to expose the naked
scarce protected flesh
and yield its ripened juices
to fingers
lips and tongue.


Someone asked if my writing was autobiographical. The answer to that is both no and yes.

Each of these pieces is written impromptu, as I sit at the keyboard. There is no preplanning or thought process that goes into it. I just write what comes, then edit a little so it feels more poetic. As such, I draw a lot from the people I've known and events that have happened in my life.

In these pieces, three or four women have emerged. None is a real person, but each is a composite of women I have known in my life. Scenes described here are mostly fictitious, but with bits of reality woven in. If not, they couldnt feel true.

If these poems work, it's because they convey a reality that we all have known. They touch something in the reader that resonates. That's what I'm after. Tell me if it's working.
At the time she was
thirty years old but her hair
pulled back
in that Indian braid
she looked very much
like the girl I had followed
so closely all those
years ago.

Dark eyes looked
straight into me.

In that moment
I realized that I
hadnt left following
and that
a part of me probably
never would. 


Swamp Cooler

Bulky and loud it blew
cool moist air into
the room and made the house
comfortable on those
dusty hot summer  days.

The mouth of it was big
so we could look
inside to watch
the massive fan turn
churning away
the heat of Oklahoma. 

No more moon poems for now...

Okay, I see that I have become fixed on the moon, so nothing about the moon for a while. There's just so much fodder for thought with the moon. Dont you think? It creates shadows where things can hide but it also casts wonderful light that makes things soooo beautiful. I especially like the ocean in moonlight, but dont get to see it from Denver.

In any case, I'll be coaxing my muse to a different theme for a while. Thanks for reading.


In the dim light she seemed
less than real
as though her skin and hair
were intangible
or vaporous.

Her cheek was warm and smooth
in my hand
as I turned her head
to better see
her wakening eyes.


A few tattered clouds stood
splayed out and lavender
against the pale grey
of a morning sky.

Touching her face
a western breeze brought
thoughts of someone
she had loved.

In that moment
she turned her gaze
to the lovely pale glow
of a daylight moon.


A line thin curved
in pale green sky
as the edge of a coin
or an elegant breast
the hundred degree moon
wafted silently above
glowing streets
of a city asleep.


In places the line
is invisible that
divides this country
from that.

A broad
space is there
and many die
with stripes of white
and lilac were
the curtains in
her bedroom.

An easy breeze
would move them
billowing to fall
silent against
a blue painted sill.

were ours but not
to hurry
or to miss
the pleasance of
her warm skin smooth
against my own.


He had loved the moon

beautiful and pale
shining a white
enchantment down
to light a dark place
a warm inviting glow
that drew him
tugging at the veil
to better see
her lovely face.

Controlling tides
and turning weary
hearts to love
the moon appears
so very close but she
is distant
bright and lovely
to touch.



Gazing across
the water
at something grey
and undefined
he scribbled words
into a book.

Words were
the thing he could
when the rest of life
seemed immersed
in confusion.

This book.
His words.



Tapping of keys
and familiar glow
and the sounds
of daily routine
in this little place.

My Darling
I love you more
than ever I thought
was possible
and there is no way
to tell you.
The softness of
your hair
your lips
the roundness
of your breasts
and thighs
are things that I
will never know
but my hands
seem to remember.

I love you.
How much I  love you.
Dont ever forget.

A sip of hot dark
liquid as
he leans back a bit
to read again.
And again.

Hand to the mouse.

Select All


There is
a thing


Almost the Green Aura

was a distraction
with its pale shimmer
and pulse.

Bright as rain
in morning sunlight..


Mornings with you

please my heart as
a silken warm
zephyr pleases
the skin.

and fragrances
beautiful as lilies
content my mind
my longing heart.


Do you know the color
she said
of lavender sheets
in the last rays of
an August sun?

How would you paint
that lovely hue
as it melted to the
muted gray
of twilight?

She gazed across
the lamplit table
waiting as though
I might answer.


There was a day
when I could not
bear the weight.

I came into her room.

Quietly alone
she sat elegant on
a brocade couch.

It was her place.

Weeping I buried
my face in her skirt.


Sharing a space
they also
shared company.

A quiet union
with individuality
but not



Pale City Lights

illumined the path
we walked
arms about waists
thoughts about kisses
as evening
moved quietly


A Shelter

Round crescent of a moon
provides small light
for the hope of discovery.

beneath a flowering tree
is something of
a shelter.

Dappled light of morning
falls silent warm
on sleeping eyelids.


I Love You

The words hung
voiceless and pale in
fresh morning air.

A crow's call through
the opened window.
My note already lay
unfinished and raw
and she
was there
behind the words.

It was a long time
before I let them in.


When we spoke last it
was as a dream
in which one converses
long and cheerful
with someone who has died.
Shadowed faces
smile and laugh exchanging
pleasantries as if nothing
has changed
yet we know it is
an illusion brought up
from memories
and wishful thinking.

Why should it be so?
We are not dead.


Fecund blue travels
westward drawing darkness.

Lonely chill of the soul
reaches me unwanted.