- - Caravanserai Cords of silken blood flow in the peaks and passes of my body, a traveling miracle, while I read the news, all of...

- - Maybe it's because of National Poetry Month that I've been reflecting a lot on why I write poems. This blog has changed dramat...

- - Dancing at dawn I sit alone, like a pocketed wheel snail snugged in sandy dawn, the sun angling for salmon behind the barn’s thistl...

- - It's the middle of National Poetry Month, time to pause for a lesson. Believe it or not, my grandson is nearly three months old. He...

- - Driving with pink angels Pink of the dissolving petals, pouring out of the tree and pink in the palms of my hands. Pink dangling to...

- - after the lame goat in Rumi’s poem not everything is beautiful said the gods of guilt and fear and I understood suddenly after ...

- - April wind On a day when April wind has tumbled clouds into mile-high snowy hills like in Chinese paintings I wonder what strength...

- - After a couple of years Don has resurrected the chicken yard with 22 white Leghorns, 2 Barred Rocks (these photographed are a Leghorn a...

- - Acrobat I have nowhere to put my arms away for the night and so I avoid taking them off, which only causes more problems. Lying ...

- - Resurrection pulses through me like a river pushing aside moments of death. My foot steps ahead toward the Russian olive, solitary, ...

- - Oxford, England Too late I heard that yesterday was the last class of one of our treasured professors. I don't know what I would ha...

- - The Past is a prayer for this future, his flannel cuffs rolled up to the elbows where tattooed forearms descend and veined wris...

- April wind sounds like a jet plane outside the window, so near I can feel the hum on the pane. I am happy to sit under an afghan on my ...

 - - A world, and you in it The lines on the coasts of maps parenthesize us as if we are together though you (you) are on the Ea...

 - - To read a poem is to stroll on a warm October afternoon into the artist square Place du Tertre in Montmartre in Paris, and have an art...

- - It was disappointing Sunday when I was sitting outside in the summery breeze, writing on the laptop, and Don came rushing up to call m...

- - Timbre It was at the pinprick of dawn when I removed the pot to pour my cup — an overflow of coffee sizzled in vibrato on the hea...

  - - Central Park, NYC, April 2009 April Rain Song by Langston Hughes Let the rain kiss you. Let the rain beat upon your head with sil...

- - I dreamt you were eating dirt I I dreamt you were eating dirt. But it was all right. It had been refrigerated in earth. II My bo...

 - - For National Poetry Month, I am writing and sharing samples from different poetic forms and genres. I like putting myself inside new ...