A Movie Dream

It was there,

life and death,

the six-fingered man

accused me of killing his father.

I killed your father? No.

Where’s Westley?

Out pillaging the world.

The countless echoes from

the Cliffs of Insanity are guarded

by a sword-wielding Buttercup.

What of the prince?

Forget the prince. He’s a sissy.

We need a miracle!  Call Max.

He knows everything.

No. We just need Fezzik.

Then we can storm the castle.

Buttercup and Westley are married 

by the Impressive Clergyman.

Vizzini and Inigo Montoya 

arm wrestle for a horse.

Inigo wins; Vizzini protests:

That’s Inconceivable.

Buttercup and Westley,

Fezzik and Inigo

ride into the sunset.

All’s well that ends well.

From: Dreams, Memories, &

Leaps Into The Wilderness

Unpub. MS p. 27

Early Morning

Under this clear blue sky,

sitting on a towel in blue jeans 

and a red Tee on damp steps,

sipping coffee with the sunrise,

orange and yellow;

wisps of high clouds appear

as if from dreams of ideas,

barely thought out, 

stretching themselves fearlessly.

I’ve seen this many times before

while wandering Pacific shores, 

deserts, and from the forest’s edge, 

how they will blend together, 

shades of white on white, 

as on a painter’s pallet,

without effort,

without the heave of collision, 

creating again and again, coalescing

into something imaginative and new,

and all we have to do is wait and watch.

From: Small Places, Big Places, Everywhere 

Unpub. MS p. 7

Set Love On Fire

To fly with wings ablaze, the moth 

cannot resist a flickering candle.

Inside the needle’s eye a growing universe.

Its constellations and galaxies need no scale.

You wonder how is the embrace you long for

that will set love on fire, split from all else.

Despite all the words written about 

love and beauty, your silent gaze says it best.

The grasslands whisper, You have tasted 

the sweetness of wind. You are the Universe.

From: A Meandering Search for

Innocence, Time, and Love

Unpub. MS p. 5

Absence

A restless night,

up early.

Yard work at sunrise, 

then shower, coffee, breakfast.

Reading headlines:

Ozzie Ozbourne’s cause of death;

Brad Pitt buys a mansion for 12 Million Dollars;

famous women are wearing see-through clothing;

I couldn’t care less about Kanye West.

Evening Tequila, like a savior, 

sets this corner of the world upright.

The grassland sighs with the swirling breezes;

the stars are intense, glittering eyes;

a bird, into the good night

floats its sleepy trill.

From: Shorts: Short Poems

On How We Ramble

Unpub. MS p. 60

Radio Flyer

Remnants at best memories are,

lodged or dislodged by strange forces

that come out of nowhere.

We try so hard to remember some,

equally hard to forget others.

They’re all there,

even if we think some are lost forever.

I’ll never forget my first kiss

and the panic in my heart.

My first wagon, a Radio Flyer,

in which I traveled the Universe.

My first bike, a Schwinn.

My first rifle, a .22, at eleven years old.

My marriage to a beautiful woman

and the bewildering beauty 

of the births of our children.

Mountains are grafted where valleys lay;

It was winter…or was that early summer?

Things were shiny? Or big? Or small?

Did they ever exist at all?

The faces, the places, 

the joys, the broken hearts.

Memories are strewn in our heads 

as if by five-year-olds 

who played with them all day.

Sorting is futile at any age.

We cling to our vague certainties 

of who did what and when.

They were like jewels in the fog,

but we fill the gaps with what seems possible

and change them if something seems better.

Even siblings, under the same roof, 

witnessing the same things,

rarely agree on what happened.

However messy it is, we still say, 

Oh yes, I remember that…

And for a minute, utterly convinced.

From: A Preface To The Universe:

Women, Getting Older, and

Other Mysteries

Unpub. MS p. 27

A Love Letter To Edna St. Vincent Millay

Once too young to appreciate you,

now too old to ignore you,

seasons have also sung to me,

and come and gone,

and come and gone,

some forgotten like casual kisses 

planted on one’s cheek.

Were we to meet in some

timeless shadow,

you might catch my hand

holding your face or grazing your breast.

Your sense of beauty and grace 

would have endured time’s test,

without thoughts of being friendly 

with death.

We would walk together for a while,

and walk and walk, 

together talking of living lives,

in and out of love,

enjoying the sun’s warmth,

stripped of pride

and shorn of reticence.

From: In Transition

Unpub. MS p. 11

Quartet

I have stood on many beaches staring

at the oceans’ promiscuous turbulence,

astonished by their vitality and exuberance.

In their seeming chaos, they were reassuring and calming.

I secretly wanted in despite their obvious warnings,

but the message was astoundingly clear.

Just wait—your time will come.

*

In the third grade

Lora Lee ambushed me with a kiss.

I had no idea what happened but it was exciting.

Today, I marvel at how a kiss of love is exhilarating, 

becoming suspended in a place of no time,

in a time of no place.

*

In our later years, 

we begin to acknowledge 

the frustrations of our youth, 

having left unpicked so many beautiful blossoms.

Too eager to pluck the easy ones and be ‘finished,’

we ignored what we really wanted, fearing the blossoms 

that were more elaborate and mysterious.

*

The world changes rapidly;

the usefulness of stuff is fleeting.

We accumulate more than we care to admit,

but how our hearts speak to us is obscured 

by the possession of glittery things,

sacrificing the Grace of intimate love.

From: In Transition

Unpub. MS p. 8