This Bridge

Back then, I’d drive across this bridge
To get to where I had to be;
In summer, stood in traffic long,
No other choice was there for me.

For this was where it happened, then,
The daily choices I would make,
But now, it’s been a lot of years
And though I’m back for mem’ries sake,

The lesson learned is still alive.
This bridge was all the choice I had;
There was no point in wondering,
Or feeling down, or done-by-bad,

As I still had a way to go,
Though sometimes onerous and slow —
For though our routes be near, or far,
We have to start
From where
We are

On An Old Abandoned Hospital

“I’s” unknown,
So many “they’s”,
From untold places,
Bygone days,
In rooms for healing,
Pass away:
We know this.
But we just

With our contumely
Carry on,
We’re here —-
What matters who is gone?
We think
It isn’t real, beyond,
A faint remaining

An echo, an
A bill of life
That’s elsewhere spent;
We needn’t hear
What there was meant,
Nor sit down to

The primitives
Who came before,
Who lay in here,
Or built this door,
Whose tears and blood
Call from the floor,
“All dust is made
  Of us —“

An Untoward December

I dream in silence, dream of running children,
Of you, the way you were so long ago;
So long ago, some untoward December,
The cold before the falling of the snow.
You’re going faster, up and towards the mound —
The film is running, running without sound

There is no taste or scent, there’s only vision;
The colors are bedimmed, to black-and-white,
You turn, excited, asking me to chase you,
And in my dream, I’m ready for the flight —
For though the scene is silent, I’m assured
By how you looked, of what had been your word.

With travels great, word-billions said,
Somehow, there lives within my head,
A vision, like a silent show:
A place I was a hundred lives ago —

I dream in silence, dream of us as children,
Of you and I out running in the fields,
Out in the fields of untoward December,
Before our hearts constructed all these shields —
For though the world grows old and taut with violence,
I still remember you within
The silence

Photo credit : ID 72579129 Vadim Zakharishchev |


My mind is always seeking patterns,
Symmetries that I can find;
Looking for associations
Quaint or colorful or kind —

All day long I’m seeking patterns,
And at night, through dream and mare;
Just to find, whene’er I see them,
That my mind has put them

Another Reason

There’s much we’re given that we cast aside.
The process: fitting in or standing out —
And yet, heredity is hard to hide:
Its workings leave bystanders little doubt

As to where we might come from. After all,
Although our own uniqueness we might tout,
Genetic code across us like a scrawl
Is penned. Then add to that the same environ,

And few things but a total overhaul
Can change us: family figures, wrought in iron.
Those differences that once seemed deep and wide,
Are blurred, be we all buffalo or lion,

The tether of our sameness keeps us tied,
Another reason when we left, we lied

from the threshing floor – 4

matte paintings, our histories,
formed by acts and words —
maybe adding hills and clouds,
distant trees and birds —

details of our other lives,
chapter, word, and title —
like an old-time movie set:
quaint, but somehow