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

Wandering In The Dreamscape

The Paintings of  Philip C. Curtis

It became dusky, then darker the moment I leaped 

off the path of conjecture into this imaginarium.

Looking out and up, confused faces stared back at me.

My call for the North Star to appear in a blank sky 

went unanswered.

It doesn’t matter where I look in this alien landscape,

my blood pulses loneliness, my anxiety deepens.

There was endless slogging through sand and 

staged scenarios of broken wagons, 

useless train station platforms, solitary baby carriages, 

more loneliness, pointless tea parties, 

and a woman running from some unknown danger,

leaving her hanging laundry to snap in the wind.

In fear of this wasteland, I saw nowhere to go,

yet an endless, hopeless, incoherent road enticed me.

I made my way through the wrinkles of pastures,

the tilt of bones, and leaves drinking moonlight.

Dodging partiers on stilts, I staggered the way of stones 

and gravel, almost to infinity, until, at the precipice of nowhere,

in a panic, I made my escape, loosed my anxieties,

leaped blind into darkness nearing dawn,

into the welcoming warmth of sheet and blanket,

and the familiar creaks and groans of my body and house.

Outside, an owl hooted; the coyotes barked.

From: In Transition

Unpub. MS p. 40

For more about this artist, see

https://phxart.org/artists/philip-curtis/

Things That Matter

Love matters most of all.

And hope.

Children and Family.

Stories, poetry,

and music.

Art in all its forms.

And friends, too.

The seen and unseen.

And Kindness.

And just showing up.

Faith and Charity.

Hard work.

Truth.

And Silence matters.

Listening for 

the unexplainable,

the unknowable,

the incomprehensible,

and all that nature offers;

listening with the ears of your heart

to the pain and joy of others.

Walking in the way of peace,

toward a goal,

even if the goal is 

simply to rest.

That matters, too.

From: In Transition

Unpub. MS p. 46

Like Prayer

Tchaikovsky: Symphony No. 5

in E minor, Op. 64

From the moment the orchestra begins 

until the last magnificent chord,

I am playing and being played,

stretching myself from low notes to high notes.

It is wine from the glass into my mouth,

a rambunctious exuberance,

stirred in a realm of detached frenzy.

What is the way to pray

when there is no translation?

When I would have so much to say?

I’m left with only the continuous rhythm 

of my aching, pounding heart.

From: In Transition

Unpub. MS p. 29

Pondering

If yellow turns into rocks,

will rocks blossom in the fall?

If hope springs eternal,

from where does infinity spring?

Earth sings duets with the moon,

but how does Mars stay well read?

What kind of wine is made from

meteors dropped from a stellar vineyard?

If a rose has collected too many thorns,

will the extras be donated to Good Will?

The ocean’s wild surf asked me,

Where is passion most wasted?

From: Shorts: Short Poems On How We Ramble

Unpub. MS p. 10

The Silence Of Wild Places

Mill Creek Campground, 

Northern California

After two days of driving,

feeling odd and out of sorts,

finally camping, I craved

to know the silence of wild places.

That afternoon I put my ear to the forest floor,

listening for the rumble of Creation

only to come face to face 

with a bright yellow five-inch banana slug,

shouting to all the world,

Here I am.

Its eye stalks moved right and left,

up and down, independent of one another.

Its lower tentacles sniffed for food,

scraped into its mouth by its toothy tongue.

Down here it seemed so much larger

(along with everything else),

a little creepy but not so menacing.

It wasn’t intimidated by whatever

light and shadow I resembled.

It moved silently and fearlessly

over the forest debris.

That night, while gazing

at the mass of the Milky Way,

I thought the one thing I would like

to see before I died would be a supernova.

Yet I was astonished that the most elegant

thing I saw that day was the banana slug

and the reservoir of silence 

that was the forest floor.

From: Memories And The Things Left Behind

Unpub. MS p. 16

Stormy Weather

Borderlands, Southeastern Arizona

When the sky is indistinguishable

from landscapes anywhere,

and lightning becomes heavy-booted,

belligerent winds roil the Sonoran deserts,

and dust surges from its places

before the sky plunges to Earth,

isn’t there a compelling sense 

of being irresistibly pulled into something

huge, magnificent, and dangerous?

Yes. A truly great storm,

wild and primal,

humbling and frightening.

A little like falling in love.

From: In Transition

MS in progress, p. 20

A Mirror To The World

A Painting Of Five Horses 

by A.M. Stockhill

There was shuffling and thudding

of hooves, like horses do, when they’re

on the verge of going somewhere.

There’s often some indecision,

but eventually, they make their way.

They know wild.

Some evenings they talk about ghostly winds, 

air of different colors, the flavors of clouds, 

and other puzzling phenomena.

It’s the stuff of Scientific American

and Harper’s that decorates their canvas.

Their heads rose high when they heard

Vaughn Monroe’s version of 

Ghost Riders in the Sky.

A couple of them snorted; 

the others shook their heads; 

they kicked up some dirt

and shifted their bodies.

They think the Burl Ives version is better.

Today they have been pondering

the grassland’s question of whether 

they were of time or simply beyond belief.

There was some tail swishing and head bobbing;

their soft noses lifted to the fragrances 

of wet grasslands and their eyes to the 

astonishing monsoon sky.

They all nodded.

We are who we are and then some.

From: Dreams, Memories, &

Leaps Into The Wilderness

Unpub. MS p. 9

For more information about this artist:

https://amstockhill.com/about/

Becoming Old Folks (Part II)

Epilogue, Part II

ca. 1970-present

We were in love and out, unrequited or used, sometimes 

choosing expediency over what was true and beautiful.

There is a vague nostalgia for our lost innocence, 

a disappointment that will never be reconciled.

Now in our seventies, with successes and failures,

a mix of hope and cynicism, whiskey and wine,

in and out of spiritual realms and practices, settling 

on something comforting as part of our end game.

Children are grown and gone and loved ones have passed.

I am astonished at having made it this far.

But, like wine, the stories we tell of the 

times and places will always improve with age.

From: A Meandering Search for

Innocence, Time, and Love

Unpub. MS p. 48

Becoming Old Folks (Part I)

Epilogue, Part I

ca. 1970-present

We entered the world after our protests, 

love-ins, and show-downs, ready to prove ourselves.

We lingered at the university gate, not wanting 

to leave, yet fearful of that first step forward.

Some who lacked a plan asked themselves,

What now? Most figured out something, some didn’t.

Some hoped to apply their idealism to social programs, 

others were sucked into corporate America

never to be seen again; some remained stoned

for a number of years, others plainly floundered.

Many of us did the best we could, getting married, 

raising kids and pets, entering unplanned careers,

remaining involved, at some level, in politics,

social issues, PTA, and our kids’ sports teams.

It added up quickly, it seems, as we saw the future

watching our grandchildren grow into themselves,

while loneliness and vulnerability 

are increasingly an everyday reality.

From: A Meandering Search for

Innocence, Time, and Love

Unpub. MS p. 47

Retrospective Of A Boomer (part 4 of 4)

It sometimes seems like a dream, Right? Timothy Leary,

LSD, “Voices in the Sky,” In Search of the Lost Chord,

Haight-Ashbury, flower children (I wasn’t one but wished

I had been...I opted to be a hippie. Mind, they aren’t the same.);

lost in that murky realm between childhood and

a notion of lust and desire; wrestling hope and uncertainty;

alcohol, music, brilliant successes to dismal failures,

Vietnam disrupting the post-WWII “American Dream” 

of Donna Reed, Ozzie and Harriet, the Cleavers,

Norman Rockwell, and The Saturday Evening Post. 

Yet...there were race riots, Kent State, police brutality,

non-violent protests, War on Poverty, voting rights;

anti-establishment, racial equality, First Amendment rights,

women’s rights, “I have a dream,” and “... give peace a chance.”

The 1960s were too big, too much for anyone to grasp.

Some of us found a corner or a niche or a room with a view

and watched events unfold from everywhere we were not;

bemused, confused, excited by the chaos, many were rebels

in search of a cause, faced with the decision of either jumping

into the rough and tumble or crawling back into the womb,

alienated and disillusioned about what to do 

or where to go, just as we watched in the final scene 

of The Graduate, Benjamin and Elaine 

riding the bus to who knows where, 

and I and thousands of others were suddenly

brothers and sisters riding along with them.

From: A Meandering Search for

Innocence, Time, and Love

Unpub. MS p. 44

5/4 Time

Thankfully, we have time and space,

room to gallop and lurch and stumble

in 5/4 time and other odd meters.

The people I love would not sell out 

the Mission Impossible theme to a 4/4 beat.

We possess plenty of madness,

but we are willing to be rational if necessary.

What resonates in our chests 

is brassy, offbeat, and suspiciously earthy.

We are patina-coated non-rationals,

conducting our own fabulous orchestras

at full volume, stomping the ground, raising dirt.

This is our rhythm through life.

It’s our only defense against the maddening crowds.

From: In Transition

MS in progress.

Notes To A Man

Do you remember the first time

you realized the world was new,

when words had their places?

They didn’t always 

work the way you wanted them to.

When others used the same words,

you were disappointed,

but you learned

to use them to leap 

into clouds of the unknown.

And remember your first

truly passionate kiss?

The one that made your body vibrate,

closed your eyes,

sapped your strength,

weakened your knees.

Your body became a furnace,

your sanity became chaotic,

the crackling madness of love 

made a strange kind of sense.

When you saw the world

through the eager eyes of your children,

through their questions and wonder,

through their gestures of offering you water,

you realized everything has its purity,

old and new, coming and going,

a colorful world after all,

and that you were an ordinary man

blessed by an intangible mystery

that made you something more 

than you would have ever expected.

From: In Transition

Unpub. MS in progress.

Old Juan

You have had your time in the sun.

Your hands, stiffened by hard work, 

are now at ease on your lap.

A cane helps you get around.

Memories are thinned and uncertain.

Are there old friends still alive?

Do you have children?

Who helps you day to day?

Your magnificent gray beard hides

the shape of your lips,

the jut of your chin;

your pants are ripped at the knees;

your boots have trod many miles;

your large, well-worn hat covers your head

to your eyebrows, 

but it’s about your eyes, old man,

a weary, world view of life you can’t hide.

You have been through dust storms of all seasons.

How many miles did you ride with the herds?

followed how many roads?

pierced how many lies?

Was there one great love?

One great loss?

Whatever it is you left behind,

you know you can’t go back.

Would you even want to?

But you have wisdom no one else has.

It matters, yes, but who is there to listen,

to take heed of the lessons of an old man?

Your weariness has caught up with you.

It’s your turn to sit in the shade and rest,

to watch a world go by with some disdain,

to nurse the silence of your final years

while a plant in the yard 

sprouts into new life.

Based on a painting by 

Wood Woolsey (1899-1970)

Old Juan, 1930

(El Viejo Juan)

Phoenix Art Museum

Phoenix, Arizona

https://phxart.org/arts/old-juan-el-viejo-juan/

From: Memories and the Things Left Behind:

A Non-linear Recollection

Unpub. MS p. 50

Kisses And Wine

You keep secrets on your tongue.

They age, mature, becoming tastier

than they ever were.

Music, wine, and prayers

are born in the soul.

There the meaning deepens.

It’s passion, not reason.

Kiss me, play a symphony, 

sip the wine, kiss me again,

say the prayers with me.

Secrets will emerge one by one,

something different every time.

From: Short Poems On How We Ramble

Unpub. MS p. 79

Of Peaceful Intent

for the fallen

I was in the Navy in 1968-69,

and the only action I saw was

the war games we played in the Pacific

somewhere between San Diego and Hawaii.

But I have walked many battlefields— 

like Yorktown, for example, 

Gettysburg, Little Big Horn,

and Mountain Meadows.

They are broad fields of memories,

often with their own cemeteries

of countless headstones for the known

and the unknown.

When in those places,

I have to stop walking,

stop talking,

close my eyes, 

and stand in silence.

The blood and clamor,

the wild screams of mangled bodies,

the masses of armies running headlong into

each other’s blast of cannon and gunfire, 

and the treachery and murder of men, 

women, and children at Mountain Meadows.

All anyone wished for was to survive

and go home.

Terror still inhabits the landscapes, 

protected by nature’s eternal allies.

And in the quest for redemption,

nowhere in the world is untouched.

The fallen are not to be forgotten.

When the smoke and dust settle 

and the roar in my ears quiets,

I open my eyes and everything 

remains serene and sanctified.

With quiet steps of gratitude,

I walk with peaceful intent.

From: A Preface To The Universe:

Women, Getting Older, and Other Mysteries

Unpub. MS p. 11

Retrospective Of A Boomer (part 3 of 4)

What a time that was when Elvis Presley and The Beatles

upset the powers that were and sent the rest of us into a frenzy.

The Beach Boys got us all worked up

about cars, surfing, and California girls.

Rock bands with horns— Chicago, The Ides of March, 

and Blood, Sweat, and Tears. They were fresh and exciting;

so was Cream, Grateful Dead, Led Zeppelin, 

Pink Floyd, The Doors, and The Who.

(Nothing like “White Rabbit,” “A Woman Left Lonely,”

“Bridge Over Troubled Water,” and “Good Vibrations.”)

Leonard Cohen’s voice became better with age.

Sadly, we didn’t get enough of it before he died in 2016.

Jimi Hendrix’s “The Star Spangled Banner” still reverberates

the pain of where we have been and where we are today.

We saw the Berlin Wall built in 1961 that failed 

in 1989. Seems that freedom had the final word.

And in the midst of everything, two men landed on the moon,

July 20, 1969. I remember our stunning, speechless awe,

right there with Walter Cronkite.

From: A Rambly Search for

Innocence, Time, and Love

Unpub. MS p. 33

Mom On The Cold Mornings

Childhood Winters

Kingman, Arizona

On cold mornings

our mother backed herself up

to the large furnace that loomed 

in the living room, that creaked 

and groaned while it warmed up.

She was wrapped in her robe,

arms folded across her chest,

shoulders hunched, chin down,

shivering and appearing to be in pain.

My brothers and I crowded

around her until she told us 

to get dressed for school.

When she felt warm enough

and had rubbed her behind,

she got her coffee, fixed our oatmeal,

made sure we dressed warm,

then sent us out to the bus stop.

When we passed the living room window,

we saw her through gauzy curtains, 

clutching her coffee, sipping slowly,

standing with our youngest brother

in front of the heater, determined

to get some heat in her, like she 

had nothing else to do for the day

while we shivered in the chilling wind,

hoping the bus would pick us up early.

From: Small Places, Big Places, Everywhere 

Unpub. MS p. 53

Sideways Through Our Eyes

Notes sent to 1967

So long ago, it seems as things go their way 

and back again to now, as always there was.

Appearances, prolific and weak, and fraudulent as are 

so many who adorned themselves as fancy, still shallow.

Even yesterday, as long a past as there is, 

not so different now than ten days or ten eons ago.

Our time past, the most egregious betrayals, 

forgiven, yet many have failed atonement. 

Such were the lessons of that time and place, of desire,

of regret, of knowing everything which meant nothing.

Seeing the mean face of reality, innocence was lost; 

to find our consciousness may take a lifetime.

Not the same faces as we today are as yesterday 

or tomorrow will be. Beware the hardening heart.

Time devours all. Redemption is how we will see.

To the center of a Labyrinth, there are no straight paths.

From: A Rambly Search for Innocence, Time, and Love

Unpub. MS p. 11

A Way Of Praise

In praise of sunlight and rain,

constellations and the passage of time,

fierce love, and eyes that gaze deep into another’s;

the migrating shadows of mesquites and saguaros,

orange poppies that coat the desert floor;

a baby’s laughter and crying,

the hugs and kisses of lovers,

the healing breath of Jesus,

and faith that knows the vastness 

of Mystery and things unseen, 

and prayers that rise 

in whatever way 

they must.

From: Shorts: Short Poems On How We Ramble

Unpub. MS p. 40

The Mystery Of The Blue Agave

From A Dream

Passion and spirit of life and love.

With immortal breath,

it searches, not for endings,

but of beginnings, always beginnings

before setting out on the Journey.

In reality, it is as lost as the seeker

who moves forward with Grace.

A sip permeates and insinuates.

Earthy, sensuous, a perfect voice,

like a woman made of fire.

From: Shorts: Short Poems On How We Ramble

Unpub. MS p. 44

Retrospective Of A Boomer (part 2 of 4)

For nine months of 1969, I was drunk most of the time, 

self-medicating, hoping to silence a vicious demon.

At the university,* I studied walkers, runners, 

rock climbing, landscapes (with houses and without);

sidewalks, clouds, bones, music, rocks, sonic booms, 

searing desert sunlight, and once a day I recited Desiderata.

I loved being the random university student. 

I had good friends and was active in several clubs.

But the sixties and early seventies were full of rampage,

riots, kidnapings, fire bombings, and Vietnam.

It was as if the times were conspiring to destroy

what little was left of everyone’s innocence.

I ran naked at Gate’s Pass and at Mt. Lemmon.

On a dare, I streaked on the university campus.

My girlfriend was French and wonderfully assertive,

but stalked me for a month for breaking up with her.

Classical music remained my source of solace,

and rock and roll kept me in the groove of things.

The Navy saved me from the train wreck that was home, 

but after that, I feared the volatile nature of my anger.

For two chaotic years, I lived in a kind of feral panic,

thinking that would make up for my abused childhood.

But no, it doesn’t work that way, not at all.

*Tucson, Arizona

From: A Rambly Search for 

Innocence, Time, and Love

Unpub. MS p. 9

Quiet Night

Distractions quieted, 

then sleep, dreams, and a few messages 

from the unknown. We tend to ignore

visions and all manner of abstractions and reveries,

left to dissolve in the light of day.

A quiet night for the suspension of grief,

relief from our inner wrangling,

the contrived dramas,

heartbreak, sadness,

and the clamor

of the things we create simply because we can.

But for the lovers in bed whispering as one,

night is the curtain.

From: Shorts: Short Poems

On How We Ramble

Unpub. MS p. 74

Big Bands

Something about my mother, 

Mary Etta

Late 1950s to early 1960s

When I think of my mother,

I remember how much she liked 

her Billy Vaughan and Floyd Cramer records,

but when she listened to Glenn Miller or Harry James

she swayed in ways that seemed unmotherly.

Sometimes I would catch sight of her when she 

danced with the broom rather than sweep the floor.

I felt like I should have covered my eyes.

It was awkward, so I’d go outside and play.

But when I returned, she would be humming

one of the band tunes, and the delicious aroma 

of fresh baked cookies filled the house.

In that moment, with a mouth full of cookie,

the world felt right side up.

From: Memories and the Things Left Behind:

A Non-linear Recollection

Unpub. MS p. 45

Walking To Class (Likewith Charles Ives)

for Dr. Mark Francis & Arizona School for the Arts

2002

Students in nolittle chaos scrabble;

clatteryak funkywords yakity fall;

flutterby scratchity steps so ruff;

one step no step scratchity thump.

Scrappy stimble jumbo splat;

chitty chat flitting bumpy eyes flirt;

egads oh zooks a grumpy zap!

Ricking rawling gefidling stomp.

I’ve Charlied sharpsandflatsandmultimeters

at ivied walledup swirllie wobbles.

A Drew/Marc flat falls a punny dribble,

steppy stip stap shuffle whap.

Nod ruthers ballet hath Charlie said,

Yokes and Yanks? Ha! We’ll have nonof that.

They flippity hopped into danceways scrambled

(gathering the byways into one for all).

Chatterfeet happy they flip-flattery stamp.

From: Memories and the Things Left Behind

A Non-linear Recollection

Unpub. MS p. 44