Tag Archives: poetry


i’m inside with the record player
“Nows the Time”
a Steve Allen hand-me-down

one child’s asleep,
i’m working as a short order cook
for the other.
i’m devouring a novel
while upstairs he chats.

i can relate to his desire.
talking to girls on the phone
late at night
was my specialty.
“get off the phone”
i yell anyway.

when the lights are out
i go to the garage,
turn on public radio
and now some eleventh hour
happenstance Shostakovich concerto
is the soundtrack
of my cigarette.


elegy for a bed

tussled sheets
create their own wake
living underneath
i give more than I take

remember when
alone and still
running up that hill

all at once
your smile is where?
i want my fingers
running through your hair

tussled sheets
create their own wake
living underneath
hoping not to break

tussled sheets
create your own fate

remember when
sitting so alone
how i wish i knew
the way back home


new year’s day

The house was clean and the table set with retro swirls. The french press was in high demand as soon as the Quaker and the Hawaiian arrived. They were in from D.C. and in their typical style, had their Cake and ate it too. On the way down, Q & H stopped in Asheville for a night and told us of vegetarian delicacies and hippies. They brought us a bag of coffee beans from the Early Girl Eatery, which have delighted our mugs since. In surprise attendance were the JBombs, with their new little guy, complete with his excellent indie-rock haircut.

Emerson was inscribed in chalk above the coffee station and black beans were simmering on the cooktop. I simply heated up some olive oil and  sauteed a 1/4 of an orange bell pepper, 1/2 an onion, and some garlic and then added some canned Goya black beans. Suddenly an idea lit and I heated up a pot of water to slow cook some grits. As I stirred and stirred, Eddie Harris pulsed through the kitchen, and I shredded colby-jack into the thick grits. The beans bubbled gently and Mrs. B cracked eggs and lowered them gentler still in to the pot for poaching. Sunny sides looking out into the new year.

Serving up bowls,                                                                                                                                                                           grits, then beans and eggs                                                                                                                                                                to the weary travelers of 2011.                                                                                                                                                          Red and green salsas                                                                                                                                                                        peppering the way of 2012.

All around the table, I realize that one resolution is already taking hold – Entertaining. Feeding the body, feeding the soul through creative fellowship.

Oscar Peterson serenades                                                                                                                                                              adults in mid-life, mid stride.                                                                                                                                                        different lives                                                                                                                                                                                     meeting, converging                                                                                                                                                                          asking, demanding                                                                                                                                                                     creativity, happiness                                                                                                                                                                           joy, abandon.                                                                                                                                                                                  eating huevos rancheros with poached eggs and grits                                                                                                             drinking coffee                                                                                                                                                                               wondering about the next time.

Everyone in my life is perfect.                                                                                                                                                           Perfectly themselves.

Tagged ,

Did you see the moon tonight?


and the shadows stalled into

-effervescent seconds-

I lingered even still


I feared I would catch death,

but instead felt the breath

of a new lover

and small instincts took root

splaying their fortunate fronds before me.

The lasting night briefly stopped

and I could watch the wheel,

the terrible wheel


without me on it.



watching the world spin around

I often forget

what pleasure it is to watch the sun go down

above the tree line,

the thick November rust of what is left

of the leaves.

Granite slopes away towards

everything else

in closer to solstice


This slideshow requires JavaScript.


June of Any Year

She lived in one of those old Decatur houses

with arched doorways and built-ins.

A weeknight summer date,

a yellow sundress

anything I could have said

shadowed the gold around her head.


Against my parent’s Volkswagen

we ended up in one of those classic teenage poses.

I was leaning

on the hatchback.

She was leaning into me,

her back to the past.

A perfect night,

knowing she was leaving in the morning.

After all, it was summer.

I had other,

well, one other prospect to pursue.


“I’m not going to my grandmother’s in Macon”

she said to surprise me.

I couldn’t hide

the look of surprise

as she pulled away

and we were perpendicular,

flanking columns

in Olmstead’s park.


Then, somehow in the dark,

the light changed

and she was beautiful



Suddenly she was the one

but my sentiment had stuck

and it was time to take her home.


I saw her to the door with no kiss.

I headed home with cheeks burning,

the radiator had threats of bursting

and I missed my curfew.


She went south in the morning.

I always choose the wrong girl.


the monastery

We would drive east,
residential turned rural,
The gentle bounce of the angled sun
on top of half-rolled windows.
Life was a mystery,
an unknown sacrament
keeping me.
Peacocks mirrored my marvel.
The solemn state of the monastery
was not a bore.
Reflections from the pine-studded pond was enough diversion.
My own vernal meditation.

The old monk (the abbot?)
would take us through the venerable buildings
deliberately hushed one moment,
then turning with eyes full of riant delight.

Happy was I to behold the treasure of solitude
and an old chest in the basement
full of artifacts,
full of youth.