The Song

Just walking through a grocery store
And then he heard the song;
Somehow, it brought back everything
He’d buried for so long

They were so very young, and she
So beautiful and sweet;
The first time that he kissed her
He could hear his own heart beat

Why did he throw it all away?
How has his life been spent?
He loved her then, he loves her now –
He still recalls her scent —

But then, back in the grocery aisle
Her “kiss me,” fades away
And sixpence none the richer, he
Goes on
His day


(“The Song” – 1-7-2015)

Fall Carnival

Photo Aug 10, 11 50 40 PM - Copy

Young love, what it felt like. A clear Autumn day –
Golden leaves, a blue sky, the bright carnival way;
At fourteen years old with my very true love
A large crowd around us, a few clouds above

The roar and the music, the beautiful girl,
My mind in a passion, my heart in a whirl –
We watched as a pulling glass man did his craft,
And walked our wide circuit from fore back to aft

And we never touched – but somehow she touched me;
In ways that come back now in fair memory.
A crush, I guess, one hardly lasting much longer;
But for that one day, I had never felt stronger

And rarely have since. It was one of those things:
Days when your heart’s dancing and when your soul sings —
When Autumn embraces you, full, as a boy
And all coalesces with love
And in joy

I Wander Freely

I wander freely in and out of dreams
Along a path where long ago we walked;
By tires on long ropes, swung over streams,
Where crickets chirped and frogs croaked as we talked –

And as young lovers do, we also did.
I loved the shy excitement of your eyes;
Your quick’ning breath, as on that path we hid
And tried our civil hearts to naturalize –

I still recall your look, your smell, your taste;
Each element of your glowing embrace –
To sin not, nor repent, in any haste,
To watch a moonlight shadow on your face –

With you I wander there in ecstasy:
With you, who’s never spent one dream on me


When I was sentient, I knew a man
Whose hobby was to build things out of cards:
At least I think. For my attention span
Is very short, and doubtful in regards
To any but the widest boulevards
That truth or lone veracity might take
And subject to drive off, without a brake

At any rate: the guy. His steady hand
Was such that I admired, in the way
He could produce, from what his mind had planned,
Facsimiles of Paris or Marseilles,
Combining games of chance and macrame.
A balancing, precarious and wise
Of miracles set up before our eyes.

A Wondrous World

A farm, my parents’ friends had;
I went there as a kid –
It’s been a half a century
Since we did what we did

And memories of hay lofts
And early morning sounds
Come drifting back to me, as though
From very distant grounds –

For I six years old, then,
And all was new, and fair:
It is still new, in memory,
Though now in disrepair

For we have two worlds, always:
The one that’s here – and real —
And one that stays within us,
And guides the way we feel

For poetry and memory
Have this one thing they share:
They each can build a wondrous world
That isn’t really