The Separated

There’s some who’ve never known the still,
And who might even pity
The isolated wanderer
Away from hum and city

Who finds instead the changing sky.
The heart that needs no herd,
Who hears a meaning in the wind
For which there is no word —

The majesty of solitude,
The grandeur in a soul
Who, separated from the rest,
Becomes part of

The whole

Shutting Up Shop

I wanted, son, to give you this,
But now, it’s emptied out and closed,
And all the fretted details lost.
Yet what I think I’ll rue the most

Is that you won’t remember here,
And it will not live on in you:
For though we will move forward, there’s
An always hole when dreams die ere

Their dreamers do

Assumptions (14)

I look at paintings and I think
How full and wondrous it must be
To see or dream, and then to make
That vision a reality.

How I would love, with colored brush,
To bring a world inside my mind
To canvas for the world too see,
And leave this drab gray one behind —

But then recall, with some chagrin,
My father was an artist who
Put brush and paint away for good
When he was only thirty-two.

For though he loved to paint, he was
In a too-common situation:
What he could see, he couldn’t match,
And so stopped out of sheer


Assumptions (13)

It’s storming ugly, hard and dark,
The world’s asleep but I am not:
I feel the burn of questioning,
For empty searching’s all I’ve got —

A roof and walls, the din outside:
The hours small, the answers few —
The thunder echoes through the sky,
And I am left with much to do,

But maybe I’m not meant to be
An answerer. For it is plain
That I’m not wider than my heart,
And I’m not bigger than

The rain

Assumptions (11)

“You cut your hair!” her friends exclaim.
“So what has happened? Is it bad?”
They’re thinking disappointed love,
Or something else that’s made her sad,

Or that she’s changed proclivity.
So maybe girls do that in books:
But it seems strange they never think
She might just like the way

It looks

(This odd assumption people make suggested by Ra Avis over at

Assumptions (10)

I asked you once, when we were young,
If you thought love a burning fire;
You looked past me, tearfully,
And said, “There’s grief in all desire.”

I turned away from what you said,
An angry buzzing in my head,
For though still tender, I could see
I was unwanted, certainly.

I heard, though, one year later that
Your father had abandoned you;
Had left without so much a word,
And where he was, nobody knew,

And thought about that night, that look,
How you had been betrayed by stealth,
And how I’d been just one more guy
Who only cared about


(Assumption: “Everything is about me.”)