I’ve decided to separate the music from the poetry. This makes it easier to promote the music. As such, I’ve built a brand-new website with lot’s of great information about, and links to, the music.I do hope you’ll stop by for a listen. Thanks for following the music.
Straightening a bent nail is not a very common skill these days, but growing up in the Great Depression, Grandpa knew a thing or two about recycling. He had a coffee can in the toolshed filled with bent nails. Every so often, he would put us to work straightening them out. From 16 penny nails to finishing nails, each was meticulously hammered back into shape. We took great pride in our work. When all the nails in the can were straight and sorted, he would pay us a dollar.
My other grandfather—a baker—also taught us to recycle. He would wash all the used bread bags and save them along with their wire twist-ties. There was a drawer in the kitchen dedicated to each. He would use the bags over and over to wrap his freshly-baked bread and other goodies.
It’s been a long time since I’ve straightened a nail or washed a bread bag. Still, I have a box of reclaimed nails and screws in the house and will wash out zip-lock bags for reuse on occasion. I’ll always remember those simpler days, days less cluttered with excess plastic and the urge to throw things away.
pilgrimage to paradise …
each step another footprint
in the grass
I’ve taken the highway, that path that leads from here to there, from anywhere to everywhere it seems. Over mountains and valleys, across rivers and streams, I’ve hitched my way through cities and deserts, from ocean to ocean, back home and away again. I’ve stood by the road in the pouring rain, cars rolling by with somewhere to go. Each time I look in a rearview mirror, mile markers passing by, my thoughts drift back to where I started, when time was on my side.
There is always somewhere to go, something on my mind, even if that something is nothing more than venturing into the unknown. I’ve walked away from pain and into the arms of love, each time the load with a little more weight, the wind a little more kick. It seems there is no end in sight; the magic mountains are just out of reach. But I buy a map at a local gas station, open it up and to my delight, find it crisscrossed with roads.
a car radio crackles . . .
I traverse the peaks
of the Great Divide
|The poet eases into his favorite chair, fingers waiting eagerly for a puff of imagination to settle onto the keys. One-by-one, each digit moves and slowly a dance ensues.|
He searches for his partner. The muse alights in his mind. They step out onto the page and begin to twirl.
the storybook begins
with “once upon a time”
from there we’re left to find a way
to weave our dreams
between the lines
many yesterdays ago
there lived a pair on a hill
he walked each day to the spring
to fetch her a cup
milady, your hands
fit into mine
as stars fit into the sky . . .
if this is all a dream
then please try not to wake me
one . . .
First published: Haibun Today Volume 13, Number 1, March 2019
I’m in the dark, and I can’t sleep. Mom and Dad just broke up. My pillow’s all wet. The wind’s blowing the curtains and they look like ghosts. All I want to do is run into Grandma’s room and crawl in with her, but I can’t. There’s a monster under my bed.
imagining my way
I splash my face
and fumble for a towel…
Staring into the mirror, I revisit my present self. Whiskers have returned. Wrinkles all seem in place. Hair still disappearing, a pondering man looks back at me. I grin shyly, recognizing him as the reflection I met in yesterday’s mirror. A calm overcomes me as I leave the old man to reflect, hoping he’ll be there tomorrow.