Old Poem, Written Age 26

When I was just a little boy
A certain prayer I said;
To shield me from the scary things
Before I went to bed

I hear the words, but cannot find
What I felt with that prayer:
If I should die before I wake
I really
Just don’t


(“Old Poem, Written Age 26” – 10-20-1988)

Made of Life

The ache that is we couldn’t know
Our eyes could not foresee
It’s everywhere we look it’s part
Of our humanity

Anxiety and panic
Futility and strife
For life is made of failure
And we are made of life

We reach out to the lonely ones
We cast our vision wide
As others too reach out to us
Though left or cast aside

Cacophony and discord
The gun the noose the knife
For life is made of sorrow
And we are made of life

The heartbeat borne in stillness
The pleasure dead and gone
The memory of wonder
That all this still goes on

In secrecy or public
And withal we are rife
The journey each alike is on

What must be made

Of life

another great wall

in disrepair, neglected,
emptied out of much of value,
a part of town where you and i
don’t go

in corners made for sitting,
and in windows stark and glaring,
a couple of chip wrappers and
some blow

in kindergarten, once, there were
some gold stars and a ribbon,
a child disremembered
and abjured

in disrepair, neglected,
emptied out of much of value,
beside a wall where nothing is

except that minutes
have to be


the storm rolls in and over her

the storm rolls in and over her;

a world of changing metaphor:

of summer sunlight turned to rain –

to dark and damp and ever-pour –


inside the rainbow of her dreams,

yet lives a shadow, once in light —

the storm rolls in and covers her,

and helpless day gives way

to hopeless


The Hollow Day

A September poem, not previously published.

The Hollow Day

I sit untrammeled mid the hollow day.
Just as the sky is empty, so are we,
‘Neath random bits of cloud now blown our way
That block September’s hospitality
From shining, golden, down on you and me.
It’s ever as it was, since time began —
The hollow day within the hollow man

The day that comes is like the sea…

.. the happy, busy, playful sea.

The day that comes is like the sea,
The happy, busy, playful sea –
So much, right there, in front of me:
Alas, though – I am empty

The night that comes is like a fair,
Or carnival, with treasures rare –
The lights shine on beyond compare:
Alas, though – I’m unseeing

For day and night and night and day
Go on the old fantastic way,
With new friends and new games to play —
But here I am, in harrows

The day that comes is wide indeed,
With miracles that I’m sure feed
Into the life I’d like to lead –
For now, I’m
In the narrows